It isn’t in my head that I feel these things. It isn’t in my heart, my gut, or my skin. I feel them only at a very great distance.
It hasn’t always been this way.
Within antiseptic hospital walls coloured to disarm, all I hear from Dr. Doctor is a low buzz; Something like a hum, but not nearly as sinister. Something that could not possibly hurt me, something that matters so very little as to be insignificant, to be nothing.
What matters is the translation: we don’t know what is wrong. if we try to find out, you may die.
That the odds are in my favour carries a remarkable lack of reassurance.
Dr. Doctor says these same words to a thousand people, and not all of them will live.
Have you ever been conflicted?
With winter pounding at the weak spot between your bones, and despair screaming static in your head, have you ever felt blessed?
Have you ever known beauty like this?
Has fortune ever forgotten her scales, and let slip something into your life that you could not have possibly earned?
Have the poets ever been where I am?
Did they ever have anyone like her?