Last Hospital Trip

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My legs forget themselves,  

fold like unanswered letters.  

The ground tilts—  

or maybe I do.  


My stomach twists, a clenched fist,  

a small animal gnawing at my ribs.  

Food is a gamble.  

Water is a dare.  


The doctor nods,  

writes words that don’t explain—  

functional, irritable, chronic.  

As if naming it makes it kinder.  


Am I ill, or just  

a body misfiring, a machine  

built with crossed wires?  


Either way, I am here,  

learning to walk on uncertain legs,  

to breathe through the ache,  

to exist despite the script  

my nerves insist on writing.

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