Emily Clibourn

Going into the hospital with a small cut on my small little finger

It was bleeding before, I swear, It was

It was bleeding and bleeding red thickness

All over the floor.

And my dog was licking the blood up

And I was calm as could be, so, so calm

Crying calm, I called my daddy.

The man in the small white room sat with bored big eyes

Welcomed me and asked me questions.

Drugs, Cigarettes, Alcohol.

I asked questions back.

Alcohol? How often? Allergies? Do you Need them?

He said yes, Im getting to that.

I was most likely

The quirkiest thing

Hes seen in weeks

He tied a tight rope around my arms

And let it squeeze me so hard

My hand felt it might come off

And I told him it hurts and he said Its almost done.

He asked me how I did it

How I made such a little cut on my little little finger

And I told him with a knife

How else?

What other excuse would suffice?

He said, I see, and what were you doing with the knife?

Well why does it matter?

I didn’t say but thought so sharply.

The comedy in the room

Was rising – but I was the only one in the audience

As I watched myself with such a little cut

On my little ol finger

Talking to the man in a white jacket

Cunning – Don’t even make me take myself seriously

And I said I was cutting flowers

A glimmer of idiocy sparkled out of my eye

As I giggled at the circumstance and he thought I crazy

And he handed me papers and told me to follow

A little black line on the ground

To a place called the FAST TRACK

And I said what? Follow this tape on the floor?

And he said yes,

And I said, this is so strange

And I giggled

And as I walked away I turned back

And he winked at me

Me and my small little thigh

I am pretty darn cute I suppose
I hardly even try

c. 2010 emily clibourn