But You Don't Look Sick

Walking these white halls, with some baggy checkered open back concept hanging from my collar bones, I feel hopeless. My feet ache with each step these gripping socks take, walking this cold floor praying that I find the goddamn door. I want out, I have just been wanting fucking out.  If I could throw things like IV poles, just enough to let them notice a leak; maybe that would be enough to diagnose me.

I sit on this shitty paper sheet every time I pour my heart open for them to see. In movies they find a cure before the credits and after the movie, but what about me? There is something about this sickness that’s more than tear jerking, it’s literally killing me. They call everyday, even on Sundays when they are supposed to be free; they want to check for abnormalities, and micro-tears that have picked up speed.

Why are they are coming crashing into me? As much as I don’t want this to be the real me, I wonder if that is the thing to make me sick enough to be taken seriously as the 80 year old man sitting next to me.

 

This poem is about: 
Me

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