The hospital hums with a quiet chaos,
an endless rhythm of sirens, masks,
and the sound of my own heartbeat,
drowned by the echo of failure.
I stand in a hallway,
once filled with hope,
now suffocated by the weight of bodies,
each one more fragile than the last.
Faces blur together,
all of us wearing the same mask of exhaustion,
of helplessness.
I watch them go,
one by one,
no time to grieve,
no time to breathe.
They die alone, and I am left
clutching the remnants of my dignity,
wondering where I went wrong,
wondering if I could have done more.
The system is broken,
and my hands are tied.
There are no tools here,
no words,
no time to fix what’s shattered.
I watch my patients slip through my fingers,
and I am haunted by the ones I couldn’t save.
There was a time when I cared,
when each death cracked me open,
a wound that bled with empathy.
But now,
I am a shell.
I am empty.
I don’t remember how to feel.
There is only the ache—
of knowing I am giving all I have
and still, it’s not enough.
Of knowing that this place,
this system,
was never designed for us.
I am used up,
a candle burned to the wick,
and I cannot find the spark
to light myself again.
I want to scream,
to tear this place apart
and rebuild it,
but all I have left is silence.
This was never the job I thought it would be,
never the care I thought I could give.
I wanted to heal,
but now I just hold space for the dying,
watching as the world collapses around us,
feeling every piece of my soul
crumble with the weight of it all.
