Sometimes I wish I could
have a heart attack
just so that somebody
I wish I could fall down like a log
in the centre of a busy complex
or in the middle of a public
and say, “Help. M-my heart!”
And the stabbing
and the prodding
and the slow slow death would
be so worth it because
people would stop for one second
and would acknowledge
my transparent skin
and pallid, ghostly
masses of familiar complications.
They’d stop and say,
“Oh, look at this,”
“Perhaps she is a faker.”
And it wouldn’t matter what they said
because words would be enough
to sew my confidence back together.
To make me feel like a whole human
being for just a moment.
And when that moment would fade –
when I’d revert back to permanent
pessimism – I’d know that it was all
I was here.
I was KNOWN.
I existed in someone else’s perception.
Even if just for an instant.
… Even if just in my mind.