I hate the sound of crunching potato chips.

Even when the sound is coming from inside _my_ lips.

Misphonia has limited my snack options.

It would have expanded my sexual precautions.

Single motherhood, herpes, and AIDS-

Those were the consequences of unprotected escapades.

Not the crunch of a needle as they dug for my spine.

I focused on the signs of sepsis sign.

The letters looked like hieroglyphs.

“You‘re doing good, sis.”

The nurse holding my hand croons.

My tears keep turning the sign into runes.

“Done!” the anthesisologist cries.

I hope it hurts when she dies.

My thighs jerk with another contraction.

“You’re a hard stick.” she says with satisfaction.

My blood pressure skyrockets.

There’s a sauna in my eye sockets.

I should have taken the high risk referral.

It might have saved me from this failed epidural.