Dear Doctor

Dear Doctor,

 

Since day 23 of the pain, my body has been new land.

You have colonized me, in every way known to man,

needle in my veins, invading but not conquering the pain,

contrast dye, MRI

but no one can tell me why it hurts,

except that I might be faking it,

or that it really shouldn’t hurt this bad,

or any number of excuses to override what I know I feel

or what I thought I knew I felt.

 

I’ve been spoken for

spoken over

and spoken against, never spoken with.

Made to feel as if

my opinion does not and never will matter,

and even if my bones shattered on the spot right now,

you’d find a way to say I have no reason to hurt.

 

I have been in the waiting room

for 2 years and 20 days.

I count every day of the pain

the way a man in a drought

counts the days without rain.

I count missed opportunities

and missed plans

and missed days

because I couldn’t get out of bed

without hurting,

and I couldn’t laugh

without hurting,

and I couldn’t speak

without hurting

and I couldn’t live

without hurting.

 

I do not hate you,

Doctor who told me it was normal

to feel this way,

and I do not hate you

Doctor who admonished me for crying

in the hospital bed

because “most girls with your condition

don’t hurt much at all!”

and I do not hate you,

Doctor who did not tell me

that the medicine

would give me depression,

and I do not hate you

Doctor who sent me to the wrong specialist.

 

I do not hate you, doctor,

but I hate this pain,

and I hate the unknown

and I hate being afraid.

 

I do not hate you, doctor

but I hate

that 2 years

and 20 days

have passed since I wasn’t in pain,

and I hate the fear

that one day

it will have been 20 years

and 2 days

and I will be doing this again.

 

dear doctor,

dear doctor,

dear doctor,

do you know what is wrong with me yet?

 

Sincerely, Invisible.

 

This poem is about: 
Me
Guide that inspired this poem: 
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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