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Hypochondriac

The thermometer and the Mercury,

I touch while it is fragmented. Syringes and how they are accompanied by comforting words. Is it my death to begin with or my life to live?


So, when did it all begin

that the flatline has become my habit, 

and the zigzag creeks I never want to befriend?


A trapeze and my unharnessed body,

A life of flights and my displayed fears of soar on concave mirrors.


Will you tell me how my veins are a life of their own? Those spaces do fulfill their promises of recovery, and not a sentence with periods. 


Tell me, I am sane along with my compulsions, that I am more worthy than any receipts of the pseudos.


Of some thousand bucks as gratitude, I am more than the hundreds of pills I should be calling friends. 


Ten thousand consistencies, million more,

or maybe five times—five times counting the vase I always want to shatter seeking the righteous one that hides the magic pill.


Am I sick?

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