Blue lights cutting through the tower blocks, glass like teeth along the street. Tape and shouting, hands like weapons, sirens gnawing at our feet. We step out in different colors, vests and jackets, masks and scrubs. Same old chorus in the background, phone lights up instead of hugs. Bottle flying past the stretcher, stone against the visor rim. Someone spits and someone stumbles, someone laughs behind the cam while we hold a broken limb. Under white light we are targets, nameless in your nightly clip. You rewind our bruises slowly, type a caption for the hit. When we bleed or when we fracture, you just shrug and watch the job: "Comes with it, comes with it, comes with the job." Waiting room like static thunder, neon buzzing, filtered air. "Why so slow, my pain is special, do you even fucking care?" Down the hall a cuff is snapping, in the bay a gurney shakes. Someone kicks against the doors, someone hides behind a desk, counting heartbeats, counting breaks. On the news they say "first responders", "hidden heroes of the night". Next line talks of budget saving, overtime and staffing cuts – we just vanish from the sight. Under white light we are furniture, pushed from scene to scene to scene. You call it "calling", "sense of duty", we call it keeping you unseen. When we crack or when we vanish, you just file and nod and sob: "Comes with it, comes with it, comes with the job." Not every hit becomes a story, not every fall was meant to teach. Some of us just stood on duty when the knife was in our reach. If we’re quiet, you say "professional", if we shake, you call it weak. So we staple shut reactions till our faces never speak. Three a.m., the halls are humming, monitors like insect eyes. We sign forms with aching fingers, swap one body, call and rise. Out there someone sleeps through sirens, wakes to headlines, shakes their head. Says "they knew what they were choosing" like that cancels what it did, like it un-breaks what we shed. Under white light we are nameless, numbers on a quiet wall. If we’re hurt it’s "occupational", if we die it’s "protocol". No parade and no redemption, no great meaning in the throb. Just a tired voice that mutters as they sign and close the log: "Comes with it, comes with it, comes with the job."
