Fifteen minutes
Location
I met myself
In the eyes of a woman
Across the waiting room.
I wanted to tell her
That we hurt alike -
Ache gnawing, sucking,
cutting into the spine,
and suturing the gash,
tight, like a corset.
So that none of it shows,
So no one sees it.
We’ve never met,
but when she looked at me,
she recognized me -
as taken off the same cross,
and handed one to carry,
and, chances are,
we take the same meds
To get us through the day,
work emails and grocery store lines
without bleeding.
It started when a chunk of my chest
went missing.
Ever tried walking around
with a hole, void gaping open?
Covered with clothes
And my mild-mannered nature,
but still.
I tried stuffing it with all that fit,
shoveling pleasures in there,
self-help books and denial,
but nothing stuck.
Now, me - all cheekbones and nausea -
bracing myself,
convincing myself,
forcing myself
to get through a shower
and the next fifteen minutes,
The hole be damned.
They gave me a bunch of acronyms:
MD, GAD, OCD, PTSD.
I took them, swallowed, and went home,
To come back the next week.
Until then - I’m sitting,
With one sock on,
Working up the strength to
Get around to the other one.
Soon - shoes; breakfast,
or whatever passes for it.
Soon - people
and using a sleeve to touch elevator buttons.
So I sit some more.