A Brief Medical History

Let me see—there was the brief bout

of pneumonia at six or seven, the house too big,

I asked for a sister. A few cases of bronchitis,

weakened lungs from my mother, but no need for an inhaler.

My joints hyperextend, no broken bones, but a predicted

future of early-onset arthritis. I have stabbed myself trying

to dislodge an avocado seed from the flesh. I am prone

to high fevers. My father has a bad back but refuses

to talk about it, or when he nearly slammed

into the sink when it gave out, or in the midst

of a storm, refused to swim back to shore.

My mother told me that, wanted someone to blame

when she said I went crazy like him, acting up

all American, and why don’t I take something

herbal, don’t I know I’m ruining my liver?

I’ve been medicated on-and-off since eighteen.

I’m terrified of burns and scalds, I laugh

as a coping mechanism, I feel nauseous

before a panic attack. I’ve cried on top of men

I didn’t want but needed, I’ve been touched at

seventeen by a man who didn’t want me when

he saw me naked. I’ve worn makeup to bed

after sex, but really I cannot sleep next to a body

I don’t love, my nerves are alive. There are scars

I regret and others I don’t. There are nights I bargain

with my body until the mirror makes sense, the breath

on the glass my only proof of life. There are nights I lose

hours opening my skin, like Narcissus digging for something

beneath his own reflection. There are three pills I take

before bed, sometimes four. I think I have been numbed

pharmaceuticals, but fear the alternative. During emergencies,

I am calm: the first time I am pulled over, the first time

my sister stiffened and convulsed, her lips turned blue.

When I cannot think a complete thought, I blame

the drugs instead of my own refusal. I am stubborn

when I am sure of love and soft when I want it.

My mouth is missing eight teeth, but the gaps are gone,

I can hardly remember.