"webmd" poems
This one is for the doctor who called me “delicate”
I think I missed that word in the thick textbooks about disease I’ve seen
This is for the lab technician who lost not one but two vials of my blood
Because I really wanted to help that new nurse figure out veins again.
This is for the stupid slogans on the walls
A fichus with the word peace under it, I'm cured.
This is for the geriatric room with the low table they always put me in
An arthritis patient means elderly woman, right?
This is for the negative tests and endless questionnaires about my health
Checking how often, how severe, and how much I care.
This is for the four empty orange prescription bottles sitting neatly on my desk
Red pills, and yellow pills, and white ones, oh my!
This is for the loud groan of pain in the morning I make before I even wake
Because why shouldn’t my roommate wake up when I do?
This is for the symphony of my cracking joints and creaking bones
Because violently trembling when you walk up stairs is so very ****
This is for the manic googling at 4 AM,
Does this symptom mean anything? Is it just a quirk or side affect?
This is for WebMd, bless their hearts,
Who think that sniffles mean polyps and headaches mean cancer.
This is for the flights upon flights of stairs I climb each day,
Cats are considered **** is panting like a dog?
This is for the cramping and shaking hands everyday
Because as a writer and artist I never even use them right?
This is for my mother
Who’s waited patiently with me through every doctor’s visit
This is for my best friend Lauren
Who missed three classes to take me to a clinic
This is for my nephew
Who is too big for me to pick up without grimacing now
This is for the wine I drank
And the bedroom basement I climb out of
And the backpack I heave around
And the school lunches I leave in toilets
It’s for the nights I have to stay in and the ones where I make myself leave
Because the only thing tough enough to stop me
Is me.
And I’ll tip my hat to myself for putting up such a good challenge.
It’ll just make it even more satisfying when I knock it the **** down.
Feb 7, 2013
Feb 7, 2013 at 4:48 PM UTC
waiting for the bus, always late, to carry me home
waiting for that shiny new tech-heavy device to arrive
waiting for service when I’ve already been ignored twice
waiting in line to pay for my overpriced vegan groceries
waiting for the doctor who simply repeats WebMD told me
waiting for the Wi-Fi to take only to have it disconnect 15 minutes later
waiting for payday when there's only Kraft singles and jam in the fridge
waiting for Spring like my bones aren’t already frozen and burst
waiting for inspiration like muse has 24-hour shipping
waiting for salvation when the devil’s
fork is already in my back
But
Most of all
I’m
Tired
Of
Waiting
For You
Sep 16, 2020
Sep 16, 2020 at 11:42 AM UTC
My body is doing frightening things
And I am not scared enough yet to fix them.
When I was little my parents called it baby ****
Because it is little and gross and irritating,
Much like a baby,
I think.
But then, it was rare when I was little,
And far less rare now,
Seeing as for the past two weeks
I have baby barfed at least eight times a day,
Often on the sidewalk,
Often the food I had just finished eating.
It is gross.
I should probably call a doctor,
Because my mango smoothie tasted much better
When I wasn’t spitting it up
Into an empty coffee cup in my art history class.
But instead of calling a doctor I wretch and shrug,
As though that is helping.
WebMD isn’t much help when it comes to frequent baby ****
Either.
Feb 24, 2016
Feb 24, 2016 at 8:49 PM UTC
In the thrilling saga that is
My Neurosis
I have finally decided to
Seek help -
Popping prozac,
Coupled with telling a
Kind woman
About my three hour WebMD purge sessions
And
My deep fear of speaking out loud
For about
Fifty minutes a week.
The next chapter will be titled
"Support Groups: Sitting In a Circle With Strangers As We Compare Our Obessive Spirals on Fears of Death, Fears of Living, and Fixations With Folding Laundry."
Jul 27, 2017
Jul 27, 2017 at 7:50 PM UTC
i dont live anymore
i mean, god, i don't know
i'm alive as far as science is concerned
and don't even get me started on what the gods think
what's living to an immortal anyway?
so, i'm technically alive,
but on anxious 3 ams my symptoms point to husk
and i spend a lot of time on webMD when i can't sleep
rest is for the righteous and living
and there is a sickness in me i fear to name
May 31, 2017
May 31, 2017 at 4:26 PM UTC