the walls are too clean.
it's wrong how clean the walls are, how even the air is sterile. it seems almost cruel to make such a place so hollow and vacant only to have you realize it's just making room. room for muffled sobs and choked-on tears and emotions so thick that if they were to allow any dust there wouldn't be room to breathe at all. it's allowing room for stifled emotional breakdowns shuddering down your spine and smiles quivering precariously on the tip of your lips.
it's not cruel, it's just practical.
and you're looking down on wax-paper skin and glassy eyes and a voice so chipper it hurts to hear. a voice that rambles like some fairytale forest brook but isn't telling anything mythical or picturesque or any damn story you ever want to hear again. it's like wind chimes shattering wishes and chirping birds announcing black widow funerals. beauty shouldn't kill, shouldn't mask rotting truths, but, sitting there with bleeding ears, you know it does.
so, you shake like an autumn leaf, your veins all fracturing apart as you drift to the four corners of the room and out the window and down the vents. you try to nod and pretend and play make believe with the frail woman. pretend she's just teasing and her mind isn't crumbling and you're about to hit the punchline. pretend this is just temporary and she's going to regain her color and she's going to leave this room on two feet and not covered on four wheels. pretend she's just sick with the flu and that beeping is just an alarm clock and that salt on your lips is just sea-spray.
pause, shudder, stare: "who are you again, dear?"
reality is a vacuum; the walls are a grave.