They asked me,
Slowly, gently, not wanting to scare me.
But I turned round,
My nose rubbing against the cold, uncaring wall.
They tell me now,
Prod me with their instruments,
Desperate not to loose their jobs.
But I bury down lower,
Stubbing my toes on the fiery bedpost.
Slapping me hard, splashing me with torrents of icy cold
I wriggle, I squirm, I clam my eyes
Is what they want me to do.
They want me to breathe.
But tell me, is that all they want?
Or do they actually want me to