Room Three

Six years gone.

But,

I still flinch at

7:14pm.

First shift, travel nurse,

the hospital:

clamped to the spine of a jagged mountain.

"Mayberry's" lights

twinkling below.

Town so small I missed the turn twice.

You rolled in,

small and broken,

fourteen minutes into my shift.

And fourteen years old.

For an hour, we fought.

Hands beating your tiny chest.

Syringes delivering empty promises

to your still heart.

By 8:14, the doctor called it.

I forget his name.

He was Cuban, kind.

Voice warm

like his Florida pavement.

We washed your face,

We swept blood from your brow,

while your mother’s heart

shattered.

She sobbed into the linoleum.

She’d worked these halls once,

Everyone knew her,

Everyone knew you.

And your last moments?

Laid bare for the world

Doors flung wide

For all to witness.

Then.

Room Three.

He stood there,

arms crossed over greasy gray sweats.

Eyes searching, hunting.

I pulled the curtain

on your mother’s farewell.

His finger snapped up,

calling the "hired help."

“Yes, sir?”

“Bullshit.” he growled,

“Been here all damn day.

Not one of you offered me dinner.”

I stopped.

Laughter like the broken glass

in your hair

scratched at my throat.

Your blood still wet on my hands,

and this guy

demanded a

meal?

“Sure,” I said.

“Let me tuck this girl

into her body bag.

I'll find some crackers.

My bad.”

Something in me split.

Something in me shattered.

Something I'll never fix.

Six years,

I still feel the chasm.

I heard it once,

muttered in a breakroom:

"I’m tired of doing the impossible

for the ungrateful."

It’s true,

scratched into my eyes,

knotted in my throat,

tucked beneath my badge.

You, little one, softened me,

But,

He

hardened me.

I still sway between them,

never finding balance.

I will always carry you,

shift after shift.

But, god, I’m getting tired.

So god

damned

tired.

--------------------Author's Note-----------------

First, thank you for reading! Although it's obvious, I feel it needs to be said: I am absolutely not a poet. But, when I sat with the challenge prompt, and the "I Wrote This" challenge, I kept coming back to my personal experiences as a nurse. This piece is based on a true event during my time as a travel nurse in a rural hospital. Writing this for me was less about crafting poetry and more about trying to give shape to something I’ve carried for years. It’s a confession, a reckoning, and in some ways, a tribute.