Who is ready for another poem?

This is more befitting the season. Enjoy.

Dead Again Tomorrow

Open your eyes.
Open…your…eyes.
OPEN YOUR EYES.
Now, breathe.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Do it again. Alive.
You are alive.
Can you move your arms?
Good. Find the zipper,
yes, right there next to your head.
A microcosm of light.
Stick your finger through,
Push down.
Don’t want to be stuck
in this bag any longer than you have to.
Soon the doctors—hope they are doctors,
not the backwoods undertakers like last time—
will cut letters into your chest.
They just have to follow the map
of scars plotted out for them.
But not this time.
Woke up still in the bag.
The black plastic cocoon you know
so well. Easy to escape from,
just push down the zipper
and out you go.
Don’t hear any voices,
as much a problem as if you did
hear talking. No voices
might mean you are in the locker,
flat on your back on a sliding tray,
heavy door blocking out any voices.
No, it isn’t cold enough.
Not in the locker.
Still on a gurney,
Shrouded in dark,
waiting for your autopsy.
Time to get out of here.
The zipper stops,
you sit up. The room is vacant
of other living bodies,
population of the dead.
Some burnt,
some bludgeoned.
Some you’d rather not think of.
Still have your pants on
But nothing else.
Have to buy new shoes again.
Pockets empty, too.
No shirt, of course.
The paramedics removed it to see
Where you were bleeding.
Won’t be shopping at any convenience
stores for a few hours.
Shit like this is why you prefer dying alone,
peacefully.
No one around to steal your stuff
or cut you open more.
If they only knew you’d been down this road before.
And every time,
River Styx spits
You back up on the shore.
You are alive now,
sure,
but you’ll be
dead
again
tomorrow.