Wolverine

One might question the sanctity of the doctor who prescribes you new medication,
While simultaneously asking you to remove the sutures from your last hospital visit.

Sertraline oozes from the holes, and oxidizes as it lands in the aluminum tray beneath your wrist;
Wellbutrin. 

It feels like your face is falling off.

Scary, isn’t it?
To walk around without expression?
How else do people know you’re human?

And your face lands on the concrete,
Sunny side up,
With the same sound as a watermelon bashed in with a sledgehammer,
Only the melon bleeds more than you do.

Your eyes dangle from their sockets,
Hanging just beneath your chin. But they can’t see it.
This was supposed to give you a new perspective.
And you suppose it did.

It’s scary, isn’t it? 
You’re a monster now. 
It was easier when the stitches lined your jaw. 
You don’t really need this medication.
After all, it’s brother; all those tiny white coffins, 
All those tiny red crosses etched into each lid,
They were supposed to save you.

They almost put you under.

How can you be so sure this won’t tempt fate again?
You know you can’t trust wolves.

But you point out the clean cut. 
The lack of struggle. 
Scar-tissued battleground does not make for easy healing. 
It’s best to start fresh.

This drug does not so easily pour out of my veins, no, it cauterizes them.
This will not be the thing to fix me, alone, but the thing that helps me fix myself. 

If I am such a wolf,
Such divine breed of dangerous,

Shouldn’t you be so lucky you aren’t trapped in this body with me?

This poem is about: 
Me

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