2004-03-17 || 11:38 a.m.

|| body like a machine, body like a minefield ||

the threads that run through her veins run through mine, too, and there are sister snags and knots congesting various corresponding organs. she doesn't know what's wrong. doctor after doctor and shoddy insurance plans, walk-in clinics and planned parenthoods, and i imagine they are't listening or aren't willing to stop and take a good look at all the commotion. she explains the feeling: not so much the pain and frustration of no relief in sight, but the lack of interest from those who push stethoscopes to skin and ask about pets while engaging the speculum. on the last trip there were finally prescriptions offered for medications that scare me personally. i don't know if they're so scary because i think of them as Serious or scary because they confirm a problem. she used the word 'die' in a context of relief. i feel the parts that surround the words. i tug on the threads a little hoping to take the slack, to untie the snarls stuck in her chest and ovaries and head. i'm crying into the phone because i can only imagine what it all feels like even though she hates when i get like that.

previous || next || random

guestbook || notes || archives || profile || photos || d-land

Site Meter