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Jan 2020
he was 13 years old when I first met him
in the white corridor
endless linoleum floor
the sound of screeching rubber shoes
nurses tired from their night shift
wayward doctors brooding over their next case
there he came
slipped into the waiting room
as quickly as his mutated feet allowed him
his life; bizarre
his black hair stuck close to his forehead
nearly blind
but there's something in his eyes
a glimpse of life
the perception?
a rattling breath, a shrug
his back is bent
his fifth operation
his trembling, pale hands, which he holds in front of his chest
like crooked but delicate dragonfly wings
the chaos of chromosomes
he wasn't just ill
he was the disease
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