Tangible
By Jada Yee
Under a shade of tilted light,
this pale skin will show its
cellophane shine of straight-mouthed shorelines.
Sometimes, it takes an edge to take the edge off.
In pharmacy lines, I’ve stood behind castoff souls,
accented by weather-stained caps with the
American flag embroidered on the back.
In waiting rooms, I’ve sat across from parents and their children.
Kids with purple half-moons around their eyes;
brightly-smiling bandanas covering their smooth heads.
At home, I will stand in the kitchen,
watching my brother measure insulin for another syringe.
I respect the existence of the medicinal scent
like I respect the strength of his middle name,
like I know never to question his overwhelming,
self-assured tone of voice.
My troubling days are laughable in the presence of a real disease.
How dare I say that my pain is painful
when his symptoms are truly tangible?
How dare I say that I am suffocating
when others are suffering through mutilation
that is not self-inflicted?
It’s easier to believe the voice of a rational illness
when that voice speaks a language we were raised to trust.
Chaos of the mind is silent on the outside.
So, of course my inner debilitation
looks like a masquerade of idle time.
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