Poem: Sick

Dad came back from the pharmacy,
and left my parcels at my door
three were repeat vials,
but today there was one more
Picking up the bottle,
a weight like metal in my hand,
I wonder if I can do it —
obey the doctors’ commands
I’m sick of pills and vials,
of lasers and injections,
of hospitalizations
and fear of more infections
of supplements and specialists,
and knowing there’s no cure,
that all the drugs and efforts will
only allow me to endure
of the pain and bruises
I take and don’t let show,
of other’s fears and worries,
when it’s me who doesn’t know
of waiting for no answers,
and orders instead of help,
of the creeping brokenness
that makes me hate myself
Because this shattered body
can’t possibly be mine;
I’ve never so abused myself
to warrant anything of this kind
but Life was never fair
(as I learned long before today)
what I’d give not to choke these down . . .
but somehow, I find a way

I think this goes without saying, but as we live in a world of rampant asshattery, please allow me to state for the record: this is my intellectual property. As such, please do not copy, circulate, edit, alter, take credit for, or otherwise appropriate this material without my express permission. Thank you.

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