The Clinical Trials

The smell of urine dances in the air,

my six-year-old mind pleads to be taken

away from here.

Instead.

I wade across a sea

of white and gray tiles.

Shiny trees with fluid

dripping from their limbs.

Clear drops of liquid

flowing into their veins,

like everlasting water,

that will not make them last.

I find refuge on a small island,

my legs dangle

over the edge,

the sea of white and gray,

moves motionlessly

below my tiny feet.

Mini replicas of his hands trace the

edges

of the island,

it feels like a playground,

without the play,

they will all be in the ground.

I stare into the stale, blank

space. It stares back at me.

I sway on my island, until

I see his face swimming towards me.

I slip off my island, r e a c h i n g out

my replica to fit inside his original.

I don’t belong here

and neither should he.

Let's float away,

inside my world

of make believe.