The walls of the room are white and clean -
all sign's of yesterdays sorrows scrubbed
away with bleach.
The lights are bright and above the quiet
bulky TV set in the corner
is a painting of a poppy field.
Perhaps it's meant to be soothing,
but for some reason
it makes me think
of teenagers running into a field at dawn,
then falling down dead,
red blood blooming beneath their bodies.
Someone close by is sucking on a sweet,
the hard sound echoing in the small room
along with Tippi's quiet breathing.
I want to speak,
say that I am ready to get up and go home,
if she is.
But I am so tired
I cannot talk.
I close my eyes and
darkness reclaims me.