surgery
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Kids dive into their imagination
To look and seek for inspiration
They find ideas for games, stories and art
But that kind of inspiration doesn’t come from the heart
Have you ever felt a knife cut
From your neck down to your ribcage
Almost piercing your heart
And it feels like you're being pulled apart
When in fact
This may very well save your life
Healers in tow
with a golden arrow and bow
Perfect and steady,
always at the ready
Their hands are accustomed to removing tumors
Commanding the operating room while obliterating rumors
The earliest memory someone has should not be
the burning scent of hospital antiseptic
mixed with oxygen coming through nasal cannulas.
Should not be of crying out in pain
In my eighth grade head,
I dreamt of the next year,
All the new friends I would make,
And the old ones I’d hold dear.
I started school with thrill,
I played football in high school and tore my right ACL on October 1, 2015.
I was helped off the field and had a trainer ice me up for the rest of the game.
It began five years before the day. I always
thought life was normal for me,
up until that moment. The doctor
Told us the news, and from then on
A disorder that's rare, diagnosed at age six.
Causes fear to my family, oh God's little tricks.
Brain tumors and pain, with surgeries to come.
Eleven was my first, I have scars that are from.
You ran wildly through fire.
Mesmerized by the flame,
I ran too.
For the shadow that never left my side,
I'd die too.
Caught in the crossfire again,
During the night I lie awake and pray;
The moment is something I won’t forget,
Will the pain today ever go away?
The process leaves me in complete dismay,
Tired of imaginingTired of actingOh, how I wish that was meCat-fishingIs now existingMirror, mirrorWhat is my birth error?Is it my looks or personality?A shame that I desire plastic surgery
It began as it always does: empty promises, hollow resolutions, and the hope of a blank slate despite all else.
It began with the same empty conversations, the same inevitable vows for a better tomorrow.
White pillows, beeping, a rush of fluids in my arm. Oblivion.
It is the dawning of a new year, but I am stranded
In this room, awaiting the sentence, the doom, the judgment.
They put me down and replaced me.
21 pounds
That's how big my tumor was.
Was is benign or malignant?
It was both.
So many needles.
So many nurses.
But they saved my life.
I will forever remember my doctor's name: Larry Puls.
The intern reminds me to sanitize,so I stick my hand under the machine, and foamdrips out. Fingers meet palms, then part.The ethanol slaughters strains of bacteria,which will reclaim my hands in a few minutes more.
CLICK!
Crack.
The pain spreads like a slow-burning fire,
As I walk down the cobblestone street.
I got here! I got here! I made it after three.
Three surgeries, I really made it abroad;
My scars are hidden,
Not self-inflicted
Still they reflect,
My anatomical neglect.
See, I was born with a battle.
And I've just got to deal,
But your comments rattle
Twas the night before my operation whilst eating my meal,in a moment it hit me and it seemed all too real,my Plate, it sat empty, hard, white and cold,while my kin heaped theirs high with colors so bold.
A musty door slides sharply to the left
Each hanger, carrying its worn material seems to clear a path
And residing there with its own sense of belonging is the box of theft
Poetry is a tool, and I have found that the more I practice, the more precise I am.
It is an x-ray machine, allowing me to discover where I wish to examine myself.
It is rib shears, slicing my ribs open to expose my heart.
Early morning, sun is just beginning to rise
No sleep the night before I can barely open my eyes.
I’m nervous and at the same time relieved
I’ll finally be rid of thee.
You’ve been a hassle, you’ve been a pain
With a flash the memories are gone
A Dozen of cars crashed them all
Holding your hand and biting your lips
Is that the terror that comes within?
On your wrist it shows
They tell me it will be fine.
That it's just a little nap.
Then they make race car sounds as they push the bed in the white room.
They put a plastic cup over my mouth and tell me it might taste funny.
BLED OUT
This pale heart of mine
struggles with atony.
Paper curls rain down
from a fenestrated sky:
Reams of esoteric paeans
soon crumpled by bored scientists.
I look into my mirror.
Through swollen eyes,
I see an unfamiliar face.
Still the same,
But somehow different,
Somehow improved,
Yet simultaneously destroyed.
