his paws,
i took them for granted.
they way he would set them on my foot,
while i sat on the couch
and he was on the floor.
tap, tap, tap.
pet me,
it meant.

stop it,
i said.

no begging, bandit.

i'm sorry.


i took them for granted.
i'd do anything,
for that
tap, tap, tap.

Where does it hurt? They ask.
How badly does it hurt? They ask.
What type of pain is it? They ask.
When does it hurt? They ask.
I’m silent.

Where does it hurt? I repeat.
What do you mean? I answer.
Today? Right now?
In General?
By the quadrant of my body?
Aching pains first?
Throbbing pains second?
How about pins and needles?
Should I prioritize?
I speak.

It’s here, I say.
And here.
And here.
And here.
It’s all the time.
It’s constant.
It’s every moment.
And please, I say,
Please,
Help me.
I beg.

They brush me off.
I’m not dying.
I will not die.
I have to repeat it to myself.
Because it feels an awful lot like death.
But I am chronically ill.
Ill, but not dying.
The doctors don’t listen,
It hurts! I said.
But I’m not dying.
I cry.

Sometimes the best part
of the day is going to bed
How sad
How happy