by Kelli Davis
I feel so imperfect, so broken, unreal.
I look for someone who's able to heal.
I know it's not right- what I see or what I don't,
But the healer thinks nothing. He says that he won't.
"Objectively speaking," he says all is right.
But he's not the one who's losing his sight.
"Subjectively speaking," I say with a glare,
"I know it is wrong, I know it's not there."
"Eight days we have to decide what to do,"
He says while I cry. He's not seeing what's true!
So I give him a day to rethink what he thought
As I give myself time to rethink what I bought.
So deeper he looks, with a wince on his face,
He reluctantly agrees, treats me at his own pace.
So to fix me he tries, but his help is dark cast,
Saying I'm not like the others he has seen in the past.
But to try and explain, what I know all too well,
Is a waste of my breath although this is my hell.
A mechanic he is, with his fancy techniques,
But for once he should listen for rattles and squeaks.
There is no one but me who knows how I'll respond
To the treatment he gives me, one I've undergone.
But he argues, denies me, not giving the respect
I deserve with my body that only I can protect.
So he'll fill me with oil, my windshield he'll wipe,
But when I run out of gas, when I'm no longer ripe
Will he be there at night when I cannot sleep?
Will he answer my call when his pager I beep?
Will he lead me around when I can no longer see?
Or will it still be my voice with no one listening but me....
© Kelli Davis, 2000