You never ask me how I am anymore.
No one does.
It is assumed that I am alright;
That since I go to therapy like its church,
Listen to my therapist's scripture
And pray to the god of hospital walls to make me better,
That I am okay.
I am not okay.
I am sick and
I feel like I am dying.
Every minute of every day feels like a waste of the air I breathe,
I fear death but I long to sleep for days,
And days,
And days
that are numbered.
I have learned to cry quietly now,
I have learn to internalize panic and I tell no one
That they are not attacks,
its my reaction when death passes me on the street.
I know my way around the hospital like it is my house,
I wonder what movie they will be playing in the waiting room,
I am on a first name basis with the secretaries,
This is not normal!
I am not better,
I am wilting,
I am ill.
You never ask me how I am anymore,
But I will always ask you.
