Countdown to the hole in my heart
I keep replaying the death march over in my head
four months of antibiotics and tubes
cutting and healing and cutting
and hope and stupid days of putting the gown on
and taking it off
sterile you know
beeps and ventilator breathing
pushing the air in and letting the air out
one little word, I would just beg her
one tiny little word
keeping it sterile and pleading for lucidity
and all she could do is scribble notes
begging to come home
confused and begging
I think she is getting better
really
as we kept punching new holes and telling them
keep trying
and the march continues
I will never let it go
the martyr is still singing the nightingales song
I am still the fucked up one
and your still her baby boy