Sharp air in her breath.
Lids slammed, locked protecting escaping red eyes.
Wetness slips through the smallest slit.

Glancing hesitantly at skin, she shoves her eyes away, against
the white wall.

Sipping through cracked lips, painted into a meek grin.
Dark, shallow graves hang on her cheeks.

Swollen hand grasping at the remote and fearfully anticipatory of
needles and adhesive tape and warm touches.

Waiting.

It is the month of her disease.