A Letter to No One

By Rida Sayyed

I can’t move; I can’t talk.

All I can do is move my eyes,

stuck in this white, plain bed of no colour,

for there has been no colour since this disease knocked on my door,

breaking into my life.

I’m stuck in this place,

hiding from my death,

cornered in this darkness.

I can hear voices; I see people,

weird-looking figures asking me to do things.

I don’t even know how long I’ve been here—

fifteen days? One month? Four months?

I don’t remember. I can’t.

Everyone in this building says I’m fighting this disease,

but the truth is, I’m hiding from it,

hiding from the voices in my head,

afraid of my death.

And I can’t do it anymore.

I sleep here more than I do at home.

I don’t have a life to live.

I don’t even know to whom I’m writing this letter,

but I wanted this feeling out of my head

before I stop my own breath.

By Rida Sayyed