A hospital waiting room
full of silent sickness
— a sour, curdled space.
Meaningless sex.
Distrustful, hesitant, weary breaths
hang in-between careless caresses.
I’m aware that if I breathe in too deep,
our slinking loneliness and desperation
might curdle me too.
So I become the bed
the sweaty sheets wrapping
over your desolate thighs.
I don’t think I like
the way your mouth tastes,
but I kiss you back anyway.
I’m a patient,
waiting for my name to be called.
For some recognition of my
fragile, fragile identity.