Sep 2016
Or all that you thought of her while stalking her social media.
[And all that is real.]
Girl. She’s so skinny.
[Her insides are a fast-setting cement…]
Must be throwing up all that food she eats.
[… a dead ant hill.]
Sticking that finger down the back of her throat.
[The real her is down there in the empty passageways.
Looking for a way back up. Looking for a way out.]
Sick girl?
[There is no way out. Every tunnel spills back into herself.]
Yeah right.
[She is a connoisseur of masks. She collects them like you collect shoes.]
Look at her…all smiles.
[Same face. Different mask.]
Here she is on vacation!
[Sometimes the old her comes and visits. They hold hands. Catch up.]
Look at those shoes she is wearing.
[And you couldn’t take one step in them.]
Another shot of her scars. Are those even real? Those can’t be real.
[Her scars are as real as train tracks. They rise up from her skin and circle her body. They terminate in the station of her mind. In the valley of her head, there are some things, like her disease, that she will never bury deep enough.]
Another hospital selfie? Must be there for the pain meds.
[She looks away when the nurse inserts the I.V.
She rereads old magazines.
Changes the sheets on her bed.
Listens to the beeps of machines.
She brushes her teeth.
Careful not to look at herself in the mirror.
She traces the veins in her arms.
Imagines they are highways leading out and away from herself.
She is tangled hair.
She is anesthesia slipping through hollow plastic.
She is rough, gloved hands - poking, prodding.
She is tubing burrowed into skin.
She is two eyes, closed, dreaming.
In her dream she is healthy.
Escapes the hospital.
Slips unseen down a dark flight of steps.
Emerges suddenly into a sun drenched parking lot.
Raises her arm to shield her eyes.
Squints until the road comes into view.
Walks with bare feet upon gravel.
Away into some field.
Where she comes across her body asleep in a hospital bed.
She is two eyes open, awake.
She is the curator of these images of her life.
She is …
the only witness that matters.]
[And all that is real.]
Girl. She’s so skinny.
[Her insides are a fast-setting cement…]
Must be throwing up all that food she eats.
[… a dead ant hill.]
Sticking that finger down the back of her throat.
[The real her is down there in the empty passageways.
Looking for a way back up. Looking for a way out.]
Sick girl?
[There is no way out. Every tunnel spills back into herself.]
Yeah right.
[She is a connoisseur of masks. She collects them like you collect shoes.]
Look at her…all smiles.
[Same face. Different mask.]
Here she is on vacation!
[Sometimes the old her comes and visits. They hold hands. Catch up.]
Look at those shoes she is wearing.
[And you couldn’t take one step in them.]
Another shot of her scars. Are those even real? Those can’t be real.
[Her scars are as real as train tracks. They rise up from her skin and circle her body. They terminate in the station of her mind. In the valley of her head, there are some things, like her disease, that she will never bury deep enough.]
Another hospital selfie? Must be there for the pain meds.
[She looks away when the nurse inserts the I.V.
She rereads old magazines.
Changes the sheets on her bed.
Listens to the beeps of machines.
She brushes her teeth.
Careful not to look at herself in the mirror.
She traces the veins in her arms.
Imagines they are highways leading out and away from herself.
She is tangled hair.
She is anesthesia slipping through hollow plastic.
She is rough, gloved hands - poking, prodding.
She is tubing burrowed into skin.
She is two eyes, closed, dreaming.
In her dream she is healthy.
Escapes the hospital.
Slips unseen down a dark flight of steps.
Emerges suddenly into a sun drenched parking lot.
Raises her arm to shield her eyes.
Squints until the road comes into view.
Walks with bare feet upon gravel.
Away into some field.
Where she comes across her body asleep in a hospital bed.
She is two eyes open, awake.
She is the curator of these images of her life.
She is …
the only witness that matters.]
I have many friends who are patient advocates. They suffer from some very debilitating diseases. Unfortunately they are "invisible" diseases. You can't see their disease twisting furiously beneath their skin and the damage it is causing. When they decide to post a picture of themselves at a conference, in the hospital or even just smiling they receive many horrible comments. This is for them.
