Comatose.

I can hear you.
As I lay here, plugged in, I know what you’re saying.
Every word is clear, crisp, and spoken without care over the beat of the cardiac monitor.
“He doesn’t even know what’s going on.”
It’s been two years, four months, and three days.

You’ve lied since day one, digging your grave deeper and deeper.
Deep? Your lies cut deep, but not nearly as far as the glass.
Slicing my spinal cord and tearing apart my flesh, at least the glass was clear in it’s intent.
“We should do it soon. We’re only hurting ourselves.”
I’ve known for two years, four months, and three days.

You stare down at me with dark eyes; eyes overflowing with guilt and pain.
Where once there was life there is now nothing.
I can’t imagine the guilt, feeding and fueling the monster inside.
“I think today’s the day. We can’t afford this any longer.”
It’s been two years, four months, and three days.

I think about what happened every time she visits; we always wanted kids– two girls.
Now I can’t even wipe away her tears when she cries, you sick bastard.
We were so young, and now she’s wasting away before my closed eyelids.
“I don’t know why you still visit, nothing will ever change.”
It’s been two years, four months, and three days.

My dad even shows up sometimes, but he never comes all the way into the room.
He’ll never forgive me for what you did; he says it ruined my mom, seeing me like this.
But how would he know, when you covered it up so well?
“I told him just to let me drive, but he wouldn’t listen.”
It’s been two years, four months, and three days.

I used to be so angry when I replayed it in my mind, but no longer.
Each move, each action is crystal clear in hindsight.
But I doubt you can even see; your muddled conscience has left you with tunnel vision.
“But there’s nothing I could have done to help him. I would’ve done it if I could.”
It’s been two years, four months, and three days.

We were only at the party for a couple hours, so I still don’t understand
how you could’ve drank as much as you did.
Behind the wheel, every beer counts as three– every shot is a handle.
“I’m glad you finally agree with this.”
It’s been two years, four months, and three days.


I only wish you would realize that my first thoughts were for you–
your safety and well being.
When you wrapped the car around that pine, I prayed for you.
When we flew over the safety rail, I knew only one of us would make it.
“Doctor, the family is ready.”
It’s been two years, four months, and three days.

It was a miracle you could even sit upright, but you swore you were fine.
Beer stains on your shirt, sweat beading on your neck and face– I should’ve known.
Yet when we reached the car and you begged for your keys, I gave them to you.
“We’ve thought about what’s best for all of us, including him.”
It’s been two years, four months, and three days.

You could have just called 911.
You could have just left me where I lay in the passenger seat.
You could have just been the one to take the blame.
“Any last words?”
It’s been two years, four months, and three days.

You didn’t have to slide my body onto the driver’s side.
You didn’t have to crawl into the passenger’s seat.
You didn’t have to leave the car, to stumble away out the open door.
“There’s no point talking to a man who can’t hear us.”
It’s been two years, four months, and three days.

As you were dialing 911, the car burst into flames and I remained unresponsive.
But I was the driver and it was all my fault, right?
You told me to stay at the party, that you only went with because I was stubborn, right?
“Very well.”
It’s been two years, four mon–

-ZCS

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2 thoughts on “Comatose.

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