I'm not afraid of the scars I can see.
This fear is an anchor, and it's very real to me.
Yes, I've heard that 'Fear is the mind-killer',
But I left my courage in the wine cellar.
Nauseating insect, my skin grows crisp and black.
Self Diagnosis: Arachnochondriac.
Head wounds and seizure dreams
Of a pain-thieving fever-fiend.
Tunnel vision kaleidoscoping as
Anxiety multiplies
Met with misguided
Eyerolls and exaggerated sighs.
Trash breathers,
Shaking wet hands.
My despair an obvious
Inconvenience, in spite of all of their plans.
(Oh! Unconditional Fear)
They'll tell you that you can use them as a lifeline,
But they'll make you promise not to pull too hard.
Ah, what use is a Fairweather Savior?
Metamorphosis complete: I have become a burden.
A pharmaceutical fetishist on eight trembling legs.
Emergency!
The doctor crouched on all fours, reptilian in stench and posture.
Licking my eyeballs, cherry red bandages, and hardened husk of skin,
"You look so elegant in your hospital gown, with your splints, casts, and bandages holding you down... but you taste so sour and self absorbed. No. Lick your own wounds."
Lick
Your
Own
Wounds
But I don't have a tongue behind my mandible, so I can't lick my own wounds.
I'm not afraid of the scars I can see
But the scars behind my eyes are very frightening.
Medicated numbness drips intravenously.
Shrugging off the need for this dirty sympathy,
I've found
Frailty is Beautiful.
Intensive care is Sexy.