In room of tech gadgets, on my phone that never rings
the hospital calls to remind, that they will remind me,
the day before the endoscopy.
There is blood on my retina, the Doctors say.
They follow, “keep your eyes open,” while shining bright lights.
Before orange fluid is injected into my veins, I warn:
“the last time the needle, lost me, half mobility in my arm.”
My back was injured dancing to Train’s, “Shelter Me.”
I feel warm blood travel to hazardously tight calves.
They keep on insisting I look at their “green dot,”
however, I can’t see past my own.
I was short with the nurse, she wanted to hear my medications.
She wanted to help; She had no idea what she asked me to do.
The depression came first, and that was enough alone.
My phone is filled with more doctors than friends.
And I can’t read off an index card
to tell her, at 24, I have near 24 medications:
that I’m a victim of un-natural selection.
Disclosure: I changed the last two lines. Especially, I changed "natural" to unnatural. There's no need to be so depressed and deluded to call it natural. Yes, changing it changes the poem, but let's pretend I'm smarter than I am, shall we? I can't be this much of a downer at this point in my life.