My insides are as empty as that cigarette pack on the table.
The rectal bleeding was caused by the pills I took. You know,
the ones I’m not supposed to take.
The fatigue was caused by the pills I took. You know,
the ones I am supposed to take.
The bruises are from the dog. That cut is just a scratch.
I’m telling the truth this time, I swear.
A little hair loss, yes. But no more than normal. Mild depression, sure. But no more than normal.
Why is it so hard for you to believe that everything is fine?
I guess that was a stupid question.
Can you just put my chart away? Every note in that folder mocks me.
Every employee of this hospital mocks me.
Every patient with terminal illness, chronic pain, accidental injury mocks me.
Don’t order me an EKG again. No more needles. No more blood. I can get electrolytes at the grocery store.
Don’t tell me you know I don’t go to grocery stores.
How much did I drink this week? Shut up. What other drugs have I been using? Shut up. I sure have a lot of meds for someone who’s a prescription pill addict. SHUT UP.
You know what’s wrong with me. You want to know why. You think the why is what’s important. The why is what keeps bringing me back here.
I don’t know why. Just tell me what. Just tell me what’s wrong with me. What’s wrong with me this time?
“You’re still trying to die.”
Actually, I’m not. I’m trying to live. But dying comes easier to me. It’s second nature. I haven’t stopped fighting. Care to give me an legitimate diagnosis before I leave?
“Yeah. Terminal Apathy.”