Worried, a poem

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Am I worried?

Only all the time.

I lose myself in so many different ways. To medicine, to anger, to pain. Will I ever find myself again? Even a piece of me?

I search under rocks and in all the crevices of the wild, but still, I constantly disappear within a rhythm that has become second nature to me: slowly and steadily.

Slow and steady, like the heart at rest, like the drumbeat that calls us home.

I’m supposed to fight — fight the diseases, fight the doctors, fight the insurance, fight the system, fight the injustice, fight for me.

(For me? Am I sure?)

Most days.

But, right now, I’m exhausted. and I grow all the more weary of medical violence and trauma.

Anna
May 4th, 2024