Blithe Paramnesia

Equanimity is a blind dose of medication that the
head nurse pries down our unsuspecting throats.

She wears those crisp, white-powdered gloves to
protect herself from the disease that we carry in.

Comfort is what the nurse calls "forcible insertion,"
and euphemisms that make us feel slightly less cold
than the moment before.

"No, this won't hurt," and "look the other way,"
while she rams the needle through our paper
life and beats the fire out along the edges.

We muffle the scream with an assistants foreign
hand and look at the bleached white ceiling,
eyes bulging, arms wrapping around steel
bed posts, cold and hard.

Peace is what we, unsuspecting, dreamed of
before the house burned down and the memories
evaporated into ash; The noose we were going to
hang ourselves with melted away from our neck
and we breathed a sigh of relief.

Serenity is the realism now sitting under yellow
gauze and heavy, remorseful pain; Skin that was
once beautiful now covers our shame.

Vindication sits next to us, smiling behind black
sunglasses, next to the nurse who is stabbing
us again and again with powdered-gloves
and dull routine eyes.