my diseases have always been ghosts and they've sat
unreachable and invisible in the frontal lobes.
my diseases have always been translucent synapses and chemicals that don't have
names and i have always had to be the face of them
and you have to understand that everyone here has always thought [but never admitted]
that i've merely dreamed them up.
the gasps begin, expand like ice in the cracks of a well-maintained and ill-fitting dam.
i am sitting on a bench next to the queensboro and i am leaving in one day and i want
my blanket and my house and my mother and my city and my
comfort back, my nerve quenching firehose, a statistics calming voice.
i've become the one with the whip, pushing back anxieties like nervous horses[they dance hoof to hoof]
and it's left me with no room to mourn
i am exhausted and empty and haunted
by ghosts with long names
that all end in 'phoma' or 'ism' or 'mia', i joke with the doctor that i'm merely waiting for an
which isn't really funny, i guess.