non diagnosis

i don't know
where my body is taking me.
i wake up & touch my face 
to search for the source 
of the dull pain beneath 
every corner of my skin.
i am a plate of pink raw chicken,
all the bones stacked in the yard
where the raccoons can make use of them.
i look up diagrams
of lymph nodes & chart myself.
two on either side of the neck,
little pairs. little lovers. 
small soft fruit. who will
harvest me?
i joke with my brother
"i'm dying i'm dying"
& neither of us laughs.
we sit in our family living room
in the dim of one kitchen light.
our father, at the computer in the corner
listening to a standup routine 
in his headphones. he laughs aloud.
every so often 
i try to pretend 
it's all in my head. 
the reader will want to know
what is wrong with me
but i have no answers.
lately i have felt like
a spool of thread
unwinding & unwinding
coming close to some sort
of reveal. i gaze into my phone
& ask a doctor to please rise
from the screen to save me.
who doesn't want 
to be saved by a science.
i will fill however many
capules they want 
with my blood. crimson & tired.
in the mirror, i can see
all my blood at once.
i would not even be
a lake. a little pool
where pigeons could
wash their wings in red.
no one is coming
to fix me.

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