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Mar 2019
Practice medicine.
I’ll practice taking clothes out of my cardboard box.
Where do you live?
Inside a medicine cabinet or a luxury house?
Here I sit in this imaginary room.
The toys you use; I wouldn’t have a clue.
People talking all around me,
yet I can’t follow the tune.
The gallery is new,
noses pressed against the glass.
Everyone wondering will I fail or will I pass?
I went in hoping to pass on, too,
wishing I would no longer belong to you.
Pass and fail you choose the end,
there is no control over these bodies you gain,
And then.
Words come out,
telling them you’re wrong.
A degree in common sense can’t win over law.
Cut, swallow, sew me up,
as money piles and fills your cup.
You made the rules and
even the winner dies and the losers lose.
My box is empty,
you took my insides.
Once they are gone they are never again mine.
Patience, patients,
the doctors are in.
But to do what to us?
To lie, and lie again.
You say practice,
And I feel fail.
Eyes full of distrust,
a taste for pain.
Short windows to gain or lose,
And without this game neither I choose.
I’d have my hands free,
Instead of taped down.
Lying on the table,
able to hear all the sounds.
Memories can fade,
But disease remains.
A rampant reminder of all the pain.
Dishing it out,
as though I can take it all in.
Why is it so important for you to win in the end?
You remain wrong,
The sick stay weak.
Excuses rise in times like these.
Know it all looks it up in a book,
using diagrams to sew me up.
Details left out about what to expect.
What sort of real reality is next?
Afraid to admit you wouldn’t know,
another blind out keeps your soul.
Written by
Danielle  32/F/Rockford, IL
(32/F/Rockford, IL)   
165
 
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