My brain is but an empty canvas. It’s so impressionable. The chemicals and symbols slowly color it as paint is absorbed pixel at a time. Dot by dot. My fingertips feel numb. My feet are cold. Nerves are just about dead. I’m ready for this amputation. There’s still a part of me that won’t let go, but now my canvas is red. It’s blue and orange. Purple. The lids trembles against the gravity. Let them fly, I would say if I could speak. Nothing comes out but a whisper. No fear, no anxiety, just sullen expectation and acceptance. Is it you who once told me about theraflu? Well. Thank you. Your advice is well served. My last breathe. Inhale. Exhale. Out.
