Brilliance from Kindra M. Austin
What you think you know of me, you’ve gleaned
from pages of a yellow legal pad stained with sterile ink
from your doctor’s pen;
it’s an emotionless affair, the goings-on between patient and psychiatrist.
I’m a mistress in hysterics seeking validation from
just another goddamned man.
were the nineteenth century, you’d have long sent me
to an asylum
and had my womb mutilated by staff surgeons.
When I speak, you scribble,
and I imagine you’re only illustrating me naked,
sprawled upon the divan, jaundice skinned and lined with blue.
“Make me a whole person,”
a comic book word bubble inserted
right above my over-sized head.
Yes, I know what you’re up to,
but I continue talking about how I feel since learning
had woken up dead, and the gut-raping grief inside of me,
because I do want to be a whole person.
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