a simple diagnostic

press a hand
to my cooling forehead,
skin like cardboard and eyes like
folds in a thick piece of paper
spit out a few medical terms
let assurances drip from your tongue
like mildewed honey

four days later, they place my body
in the morgue
they label me
'jane doe'

what a fitting name,
though it is not my own
as i wander,
forever wandering

and you said,
'don't worry'
but i still attacked my hands
with flailing teeth

do you think that
labeling bodies as
gives them power?
or are blank faces
just like a small scrap of a
candy wrapper floating on the wind?
easily ignored.

we go our
entire lives
'find me beautiful!'
'find me worthwhile!'
'find me valuable!'

when it's all over,
nobody remembers your name,
except for that quiet boy and girl
who walk through the churchyard
on sundays and run their young fingers
over forgotten gravestones
rotting in the sun,


The End

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