The doctor blamed it on caffeine and anxiety.
He wasn’t the one twitching, sweating in the fetal position,
Choking as a rabid monster tried crawling out,
Even if it meant killing the host in the process.
The doctor knew it started because of a girl.
He wasn’t the one staring at the clothes hanger
As a method of escape in one of Houdini’s acts,
Until the roommate called 911.
The doctor called my disorder a disease.
He wasn’t the one being led out of the apartment,
By cops, by EMTs, like a drugged out celebrity, watched,
By the imaginary paparazzi on the puke green carpet.
The doctor prescribed half a sleeping pill.
He wasn’t the one sent home an hour after admittance,
Lost, empty, responsible for the cab fare, written off,
Like another stigma looking for an excuse to bitch.
Lucas Scheelk is a white, Autistic, trans, queer poet and actor from St. Paul, Minnesota. Lucas uses “he, him, his” pronouns, and “they, them, their” pronouns. His writing has appeared in places such as Lambda Literary, Assaracus: A Journal of Gay Poetry, and Glitterwolf Magazine. Follow him on twitter: @TC221Bee.
Turtle Way 