Well, doctor:
here we are.

I have come past the waiting room
where, stifled like a Victorian, my piers
were my judge, jury, gallows. The elderly,
saliva-stained, eyed me with a pull, a nostalgia
that made me ashamed to be womanly, vital, youthful.
Because in ten years time, they will be green and rotted
whereas I - most likely - will be at the height of my sexuality
desire respiring through me, as if alive.

As if a foreign entity that shall be prized
away from me, like from those wizened people.

Youth and beauty, you see, Doctor, they are simply manacles,
simply deceit! Yes, you heard me, I said health is caging!

In a society lusting after me, its summit, I can hardly dare
to be teary or to clutch and claw at the pastel paint of childyears.

Oh, sweet it was, like Lazarus' rebirth
to accept in that waiting room, crowded by deathly caricatures
that I was to decompose, a masterpiece going backward.

What's what, doctor? What do you mean
'What is wrong' with me?

an: ugh, for a second a plane eclipsed the sun outside and I thought the world was ending.