We're all dying,
but the nurse took 11
fucking bikes of blood from me
today and doubtlessly they still
won't know what is wrong inside.
I cried in the car ride,
the Ray-Bans hiding my watery eyes
from cabby and passersby;
I am just scared
because no one has answers
and I don't feel sick.
I called my sister
and needed her to be a mother
for a second, but she just
complained about her work day.
Oh well, I ate Indian soup,
discarding ten of the twelve mushrooms,
and sulked and smoked weed
for the first time in forever,
which was a wrong heavy choice,
convincing myself I am definitely dying.
Later, I went to a bar called Tonight
and the bartender reminded me of you.
Of course, you are prettier than her,
but her innocent face was similar
to the remembrance of yours
and I cried some more.