hypochondriac

my eye: a star infracted,
the heart knot imploding
soft and wet, a burst of fluid
from the mouth during extreme emotion.

call the Doctor, blissful.
she will show you charts,
blood tests, the latest CT scan-
every reason for relief.

i, for one, know better.

these are the veins that ill,
this is the cell that duplicates until
in every imagined eventuality,
i kill myself over and over.

you may temper with drug,
sleep me, 
in foreclosures of hope
you might slap me,

just to change the subject.
you may force me to accept
the most hideous injuries
abuses, lies, bald skin under

the frizzy brown wig.
the eye you calm is your own,
for i will never be convinced
that anything will be all right.

that is simply too much to hope for.