Time Heals?

I am pain, squared, groaning in a solitary ward.
Abandoned by God, by the world, by myself. There is only a moan and a white
ceiling,
like an untouched canvas, frightening in its potential.

A quiet knock at the door. I lift my head from the pillow—the creak.
It’s a doctor in a white coat and mask, entering the room.
“What are you complaining about? Your little heart hurting, perhaps?”
— I am a stripped-bare soul; it hurts to move.

The world has stuck to my ulcers—you can’t tear it away.
The slightest shift of thought causes dizziness.
Inject me with morphine—or better yet, give me poison.
The doctor squints cheerfully; there’s a syringe in his hands.

“Well, what can I say—this happens to just about everyone.
Dive into rush hour, into the ocean of passing faces—
your symptoms are the fate of two-legged creatures.”
The needle pierces a vein; some solution
mixes with my blood; I wait convulsively for relief.

The doctor, still cheerfully squinting, stares straight at me,
extends his hand: “By the way, my name is Time.”
— When will I feel better? What did you inject?
— Glucose. And you probably won’t feel better—ever.
— But what about ‘time heals’? — Empty talk.
Thinking distorted by hope—in other words, bullshit.

The doctor removes his mask. “Sweetheart, I’m not a healer.”
Instead of a mouth—a cut stretching to the ears, outlined in red lipstick.
“Why so serious? Let’s draw a smile,
and you’ll crawl through life laughing, leaving a trail of blood.”