Thursday, April 12, 2012

For my patient

I read your poetry last night and found myself, a voyeur
Speaking of your loved ones, your dreams, and imagination

Last night I dreamt that you grew wings
And found a home, in a place where you could always sing

In a place that you did not need a key to get out of
And a team of “experts” staring at you
Proclaiming your diagnosis
And destroying your spirit

You cry yourself at night, sometimes, in that room
And wake up with a smile, and feed me your lines

It’s the closest thing to normal that you know.
You are grandiose.
The world is against you.
I wonder how your emotions feel, stuck in that body when they are so big

Your son peers at your picture, somewhere far away.
While someone explains to him that you’re very sick.

And your father yells at me, believing I can cure you.
You are beautiful, as you are.

I wish you could see what you look like with those wings.

We raised your medication and your eyes glazed over.
You stopped creating your own concertos and tragic heroes in your mind.
But it was your home.

I wish you knew what you looked like with those wings.
Even as your body flails against you.
As we inject your muscles with a calming syrup
Even as our keys rattle on our wrists.
Even as the thoughts destroy your mind.

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