Monday, May 27, 2013

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
visible funerals.


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
'itis'
which isn't really funny, i guess.

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