beep. beep. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

my back is sweaty against the thick cotton-white quilt. 

the bed is drained of color,

an amorphous mess of white.

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

ugh. what is it now? 

I slowly roll onto my side, careful not to rip the electric nodes 

that are plastered strategically on the battlefield of my chest. 

my heavy lids lift tentatively as I sneak a peek at the glowing monitor above me. 

33...

33 beats.

 oh. okay. sure. whatever that means. 

THIRTY-THREE?!!!

what the heck.

come on, little heart. 

you know we both want to get out of here. 

run. flee. 

and just pretend that we can slide through walls and inch past guarded doors. 

you know I hate to see my parents cry over me with their woeful eyes as I lay sedentary in my hospital bed. 

you know I hate to watch my teenage sister retreat to the corner, unsure of what to say,

unsure of how to confront an older sister, an ostensible role model. 

with. an. eating disorder. 

you know I hate to see the little one tug my wrist and gently beg me to come back home.

you know I hate to stuff my face with foreign hospital food as I stare at the clock ticking

and keeping score. 

you know I hate to squat and pee with shame in a plastic toilet. 

you know that I want my summer to be free. 

A hand wraps the blood pressure cuff around my arm, squeezing it like a hungry python. 

it might as well squeeze my heart. 

maybe that will wake my sorry little organ up. 

maybe my heart will remember that I still want to live.

that I still have dreams.

I glance again.

34. 

darn.