She’s extremely hard to look at.
Black surrounds her lips and marks the spot on the middle of her face where her nose used to be.
Her eyes roll back into her head every now and then, her mouth moving in words that I don’t understand.
The front of her hospital gown is stained with dark blood.
Her stomach is swollen.
She says she’s pregnant.
The doctors say it’s her abdomen filling up with blood.
They’ve had her in quarantine for a few months now. Her condition is getting worse. No treatment is working. In fact, every treatment seems to be making her worse.
She’s dug holes into her hands and feet.
I watch her through the small window of safety glass. She’s scratching her side.
No one decided that I’d feel this way.
If you felt…how I feel…
Would you betray yourself?
Her body shakes and doctors in hazmat suits rush in to stabilize her.
Her seizures are in correlation with her visions.
The crown of thorns is God’s true love for us.
Jesus on the cross…the spilling of his blood….all thanks to those that serve him and love him.
We love him and his heart breaks…the Evil One destroyed by the cross…
Christ’s ghost dwells in everyone’s souls…and God loves all of us…Jesus and Mary and the world…
She spits blood with every word. Her body contorts and twists.
I can smell her body decomposing.
It’s your heart that is so wrong.
It’s your heart that is mistaken.
You’ll never know your sacred feathered self.
The doctors pull me away, trying to give her a chance to calm down and relax, to prevent another round of seizures.
She yells the same phrase as I walk down the hall. It echoes off of tile and medical equipment.
You can’t deny how I feel.
You can’t decide for me.