Young Writers Society

(Leu)kemical Poison
B.D.M.

“You, get out, I only want the stuff now”
“Okay”

The most horrifying composition.
White flooring, ceiling, lights.
The high pitched intercom.

Here sound is thin,
weightless, words are killed
on the ridges of lips. Battles fought(lost) on simple plastic chairs.

Didn’t want to see him die. Hands clutching
the plastic bed rails, as if for fear
of death. (Ha, as if rational men
have such fears) I
remember his head reflecting light, like a cueball
in a snowstorm.