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The Morning After Night of the Living Dead

My boyfriend hates my guts.
I put up one hell of a fight
wrestling and grappling with him to let go
and then he bit me.
He ate into my flesh of midnight like a maggot.
Human teeth sank into me.
Blood drew. He broke the skin.
I was afraid Id get the cooties or AIDS
from his ravenous bite, so I went to 
the clinic to get this bloody abrasion looked after.
I unveiled my pain to the glass-faced receptionist 
and she said,  Fill out these forms and have a 
seat. I sauntered over, holding a
blood drenched dishtowel to the wound
and began to fill out the multicolored papers.
Finally, after 45 minutes, I was called.
I sat the clipboard of forms in the red, plastic chair
and followed the nurse who waited like an angel 
in the swing out doors. Was she going to lead me
into the white light?
Would I get my wings or candy after it all? I thought. 
We walked down a hallway as cold as dead bodies
 until we got to a room
that smelled of band aids and witch hazel.
Tables decorated with jars of q-tips,
gauze, medical tape and syringes.
Have a seat. I need to take your blood pressure.
She stuffed her hands in latex gloves and rolled
up the sleeve to my oxford shirt.
She squeezed the pumping apparatus 
like a ripe tomato.
I can feel my arm about to explode.
Okay, looks good, she said. 
Now, let's look at that wound.
It doesn't look that bad, but you're gonna need
a tetnus shot.
I hate needles, but who doesn't 
unless they're some closeted sadist?
She pressed her sanitary finger 
into the inside crease of my arm
searching for fuschia veins.
What happened, fight with your girlfriend?
"Something like that, yes."
The needle was a yellow jacket coming in for a landing. 
I closed my eyes to it going in.
 
Okay, you're all set.
The nurse tapes a swab over 
my pierced, bleeding existence.
She hands me two pills the color of kidney beans.
Be sure to take these with food. 
See the receptionist in the lobby.
People began to stare, mothers held their children
tight, cupping their mouths from what they believe
is a social disease, others pointed in disgust.
Suddenly, without warning,
a complete stranger rises from his chair,
stops me in my tracks and spits in my face.
Eyes of obese mamas gleam red, 
dentures became carpet-cutting teeth,
Cute babies became children of the damned. 
Angels in white coats, stethoscopes
were armed to the hilt with claws charging  
for me like Spanish bulls.
I run out through the glass doors of the clinic 
away from the 10,000 maniacs, 
these horror show monsters.

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