Party with Sluts

Its 2AM on a Wednesday night,
the doctor's gone,
I still don't feel alright.
Can you see the stain?

I'm waiting to wake up
from this dream within a dream.
But I'm awake,
or so it would seem.

My mind races
but if I close my eyes
I can travel to places
far from this hospital bed.

My granfather sits next to me,
afraid to speak his mind.
He searches for the words
we both know he'll never find.

I want to reach out,
tell him it'll be okay.
But I know
there's nothing I can say.

The nurse comes in
and then
asks me to rate my pain
on a scale of one to ten.

When I don't reply she nods and says,
"Yes, that's what I thought,"
and leaves
with the only answer she got.

It wasn't that it didn't hurt.
The pain was just to great to label.
I always saved my ten
when I was able.

I felt the bruises forming,
knew that I was bleeding.
I just couldn't give them
the answers they were needing.

So I stayed quiet,
lost in my head.
I wished for many things,
mostly that either he or I were dead.

I felt the loss of what he'd stolen,
he killed what was left of the good in me
and left me with a mark
that only I could see.