No, Nurse.

Are you ok?
No.
But there is fucking nothing
anyone can do
So just don’t ask me.

You don’t want
to hear anything
other than yes.
I am just a job to you.
A checkbox.
A piece of paper.

You draw me in
with caring eyes.
But I am discarded
as soon as I walk
out that door.

I disappoint you
with my repeating tears
of torment.
Just a face
in a sea of nutcases.

Your hugs are only skin deep.
My embrace
leaves part of me behind.

Existence Is Too Loud

I can’t stand this sensation.

Every hair a needle, bugs crawling,
zapping me all over.
Pain in my head like brain freeze, zero to suicide every hour.
Graphic images flashing through my head,
urges that scare me with shocks shooting though my heart.
Jaw aching from biting back anger and tears. Lump in my throat choking me,
a bitter taste burning my mouth.
Pain racing through my hands and feet.
The constant holding back of hateful outbursts
and panic attacks. Disgusted with myself,
the feel of my hair across my face, the clothes against my skin,
repulses me. A desperate cold in my chest.
Flushes of heat have me tearing at my clothes, convinced I am being burnt
or fearing I will pass out. The fear is back, the guilt, the self-loathing.
Faces loom over me, distorted judging stares, whispers behind hands,
people on the wrong end of the binoculars.
Acid trickles down my back
as shadows creep up behind me, frightening forms in the dark.