I’ve hit a place where everything dies.
Or maybe I’m simply dying for a hand,
like it’s really there…
and walking me free
someone real I used to be
but never quite got the hang of.
But what I don’t want…
What I don’t want is your help.
I don’t want any more of your tests
and your sad,
scary waiting rooms
and your scanning, seeing, sorting machines,
running on clockwork
and fairy tales.
I don’t want a thousand ways to label me away.
I don’t want a number or a code
or a class
to teach me out of darkness.
I wither in your heartless light
and on your silly bloody charts.
I don’t want your pills
or your sick notes
or your half-hearted dose of talk therapy
with a diagram thrown in.
I don’t want your cold,
and your smug, dead eyes,
looking for clever,
to be condescending
about all the things I’m doing wrong
and all the things I have to change
what I never wanted to be
and what nobody who ever felt the truth of me
ever wanted to see.
I don’t want your words
or your answers
or your glowing testimonials
all the love that died on me
apparently shone on you.
I just want to get up
without this banshee dying in my soul
or these cataract windows
taunting the view from my heart
a million things to scare me
out of breathing…
I just want me back…
when all those poems
have died with the one set of eyes who knew…
and the one clear light that’s screaming too.