I am not sick
I tell myself as I rip my own heart out of my chest in hopes that I can fix it

I am not sick
I call to an empty room that I am sure is full of dead relatives

I am not sick
I mumble while clutching my own two arms in bed
Leaving pitiful marks against my skin

I am not sick
I tell my mother even though she died last week
At the ripe old age of 43

I am not sick
The voices tell me as I cut off my own hands
Whispering amongst themselves as they decide whether or not to let me in on their plans

I am not sick
I assure the doctors as they frantically try to piece my arms back together

I am not sick
I tell the psychiatrist as she lays me on her couch for our very first session

I am not sick
I call to a white room full of nurses and needles, fearful of my future

I am not sick
I cry before rubber is placed into my mouth to keep me from biting my own tongue clean off during the torture

I am not sick
I remind myself at lonely meals
The people talking of things that don't exist

I am not sick
I scream at the volunteers who strapped me in the therapy chair

I am not sick
I whisper to an empty room
In nothing but a strange jacket that leaves my arms sore after it's removed

I am not sick
I mumble before I go to bed on the cold floor

I am not sick
At least, not anymore