so today he told me his diagnosis,
said it with a pause to add
dramatic emphasis just like
our ****** mother use to do
"it's called dissociative identity disorder"

I say, "well,
do they have medication for that, or what?"
believing that it couldn't be
any more depressing than
the cancer that had taken her
a few years earlier

then I tried to cheer him up by
saying things like "ya know,
there's a little Buddha that lives
in your chest you might try
getting to know", and when
that didn't work
I gave in and said,
"well, if it makes you feel better,
I've spent the first half
of my life wishing I could do
it all over again, and the rest
wishing I was already dead"

Written by Sara Fielder © Mar 2016