It is quiet outside today.
But my mind is burning in flames.
The ICU was set on fire.
And I can’t help but think—
How do I escape that fire.
And do I even want to.
It is the place I feel at home.
The first place to understand me.
To see me.
When I am up and when I am down.
When there is nobody else to catch me.
It holds my silence without question.
Carries my weight without asking.
Takes my breath, my anger, my sweat—
And gives nothing back but presence.
Some nights, I forget how to breathe.
So I listen to the ICU—
to the hum, the beeping, the quiet between alarms.
I let its rhythm steady mine,
because somewhere in the flicker of lights and sterile stillness,
it taught my body how to keep going.
It knows better.
It always has.
Never asks.
Never needs to.
Just stands there,
in scrubs that smell like effort and electricity,
with eyes that make the walls feel warmer.
The pressure settles against my spine.
The hum curls in my chest like a secret.
And the heat—low, constant—
moves beneath my skin like a touch I never asked for,
but never want to end.
My eyes don’t wander anymore.
Just stay fixed—on that quiet blaze that never speaks, but says everything.
I said nothing.
But the ICU held me anyway.
And in that stillness—
I burned a little more gently.
The ICU flickered in red light.
The alarms cried again.
All I could hear was them—
screaming for me to run.
But I didn’t.
Because I don’t know how to live without that fire.
There’s no fire escape here.
Only the knowing
that I’m not burning alone.
