hypochondriac 

did you know you can die of flowers?
they grow in your throat
& then you are 
the wrong kind of boy.
do i have "catastrophic" written
in my blood vessels?
i want to be tested for angels.
they have named diseases 
after our hopes & fantasies 
how am i supposed to walk around
& not wonder about 
the kinds of fires that might
be stoked by my hunger?
i go to a clinic where i am sure 
i am dead. they assure me i am not dead
even though all the other clients
are ghosts. they say,
"we need to rule out
all other possibilities."
i pour my blood into a chalice.
i spit onto a pocket knife.
the doctors excavate my purple
& determine it is specifically 
mauve. i knew it. i knew it
when i was awake at night,
heart as a bullfrog. i chased 
the organ down the hall.
they determine 
after everything
that i am making it up.
my arm falls off & becomes 
an infant. they say, 
"that can happen
to people like you."
i no longer want a cure. i just want
to be seen. i want a god
to come down & say
"your pain is so clear
it is made of glass." when the flowers come
i welcome them. violets 
& lilacs. first from the roof
of my mouth
& then from between my teeth.