when you go to the emergency room
they ask you to rate your pain on a scale of one to tenÂ
as if i had just been to a fancy restaurantÂ
i hope you liked getting a third degree burn! how would you rate it from one to ten?
the nurse won’t get it if i tell her that i have a stroke and
i can’t speak properly (freedom of what?)
my chest hurts (feel the pain of my darker counterparts)
my limbs feel heavy (crumble under the quiet exhaustion of chasing the dream)
i can already hear her response.
so like an eight?
and eventually i’ll have to tell her no, you have to prescribe me pills.
she calls it depression
i call it misdiagnosis.
we are not speaking the same language
even though we both call it english.
i can’t stand up properly anymore.
there is a storm in my chest and i can’t find shelter.
eight, it’s an eight, i repeat like a broken record.
I am speaking her language, but she won’t listen.
i guess somewhere in me I know.
the small blue tablets won’t mend theÂ
cracks in the soil i call home
cracks in the red, white, and blue
cracks in
me.