Do Not Resuscitate

Life feels like an ECG machine— a live stream of my heart’s electrical activity.

Doctors, friends, and family surround my body, watching the QRS complex shoot up and down as if gravity is deciding whether I live or die.

I wait for the flatline, disappointed when it doesn’t come.

I may be dead then, but my heart is finally consistent.

Except I am not in a hospital. Doctors, friends, and family are not here.

I’m on a windy mountain road in Utah covered in snow, my heart spiking and dropping in response to someone else’s mood. 

This time, I’m not begging for the promise of stable ground. I get out and let the spikes fall on their own.

Go back to the box I was put in. Nail it shut again.

Bury me deep in your dreams while my soul floats out— and I dream again of being seen as a human so wonderful, my T waves lose control of my body.

And I am good enough.

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