* * *


These questions speak to character,
so frankly, I am not amused
that I must sign each page in trust
and speak with you sans attitude.

You touch me where it hurts and I
am asked to pretzelize myself
to fit machines of poor design--
they're cold, they're hard and hurt like Hell
just climbing up to suit your needs
convenient for you--but me?
I am sick but you can't bend?
You question then--my temperment...
I'll suffer for at least three weeks
just "hop up on the table"? PLEASE.
If I could hop, I'd hop away.

I flinch each time you press my legs,
and yes, I watch your face for clues
as you watch mine for pain in ruse.

I would not be here, don't you know?
If options were my choice, I'd go
flipping you the finger as
I did once, without a pass
to offer to the monitors
in the halls of "you are cursed"
when I did not know that I
was limited and I would die

some day

I pray

there is

something

a place to find my family,
my friends, my pets, and butterflies
like specks of dust that hypnotize
dancing in my dreams, my eyes
would see a life turned upside down
if my brain would not translate
the world has always been this way...
for me, you see--do you agree?
And just how much will you charge me?
For your dismissive arrogance...

Once upon a time, I danced.
I didn't do it for a chance
to be some superstar on stage.
I just did it anyway--

because I felt no pain.

* * *.