Today I leave
and so they propped me up
on crutches that felt more like crop sticks.
Today, they stuffed me back up like a doll,
and put me in clothes that no longer hid me like the sheets on the bed.
(Used again are my shoulders just to hang clothes).
Today, they handed me back my fortunes,
and I took them back willingly,
even though they no longer belonged to me.
And as they wheeled me out covered in guilt,
the ceiling lights didn’t bloom;
their usual gold coronas weren't there to kiss my eyes.
They didn't even wish me goodbye.
Today as I write this,
the window by my bed
no longer looks like the generous slice of sky
that I was once so thankful for;
that was once saved for just me.
Not today nor ever will they understand the miracle
that I wasn't ever dead;
that in truth I was free,
that I was an empty casket.