I am beneath two thin warm sheets: I figure the cold ones are for those who get to die. My hair is fist-fighting the disposable hospital cap. I close my eyes. That is my pro-tip. Close your eyes as the table brings you kissing distance to clanking, banging, repeated mechanical crying. Time will melt. The dissonance will chase itself and then not. Somewhere between radiology waiting room and a life never the same, I have a rubber panic button I’ll only want to squeeze after the results are read. The tech tells me I am too young for this.

Bri Campbell (they/she) is an Atlanta-based poet and collage artist from Orlando, FL. 

Instagram: @a.bri.dged