I play with my nails
I notice a chip on them
Im going to have to get them done soon
I wonder what colour I will get?
In the waiting room
There is a little boy over on one side with his mum
There is an elderly women smiling at him, as she lifts her head up from her book
I am the only one of my age in the waiting room
I sit there trying to compose myself
"Amy Kinnings- Smith, room 4 "
I walk down the corridor
Trying to navigate the many doors
I find it
And open the door
How are you they ask?
You can be truthful they say
I play with my nails
The chip is really starting to annoy me
The colour is all wrong
They start listing the tests theyll do
The parts of me they cut off to test
The tests they will do
The bloods theyll take
The conditions they need to rule out
All these words I will need to google once I am home
I think when I am home, I will look on pintrest for a new nail style
I am thinking pink or yellow
They examine me
Ask if I want someone else in the room with me
Im used to it by now I dont care
After a while you get used to being poked and prodded in that way
As I put my clothes on, I realise one of my nails is chipped and falling off
I will have to glue that on later on
I sit back on the chair
They tell me the plan
Which organ or part of my body is not working as they should
I always find it ironic as I am an organ donator
I always think who would want my organs
I exit out the door
Walk through the corridor
Past the waiting room
I smile at the nurse
And then I sit oustide
And contuine playing with my nails
To stop the tears in my eyes that I can feel forming
I will defiently have to fix my nails once I am home.
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