In the theater of my own creation, I play the lead,
crafting scenes where I bleed from needs you can’t see.
Pain is my script, illness my prop,
with each act, I cage your concern, engage your rage.
Fabrications fall from my lips, so sweet,
each lie a line in this deceit.
I twist symptoms into stories, craft my plight,
for in the glow of your gaze, I find my light.
Without your eyes, I fade, a ghost in the noon,
so I conjure up dramas that end all too soon.
A master of the art of the medical muse,
choosing ailments like costumes I use.
Pain makes me visible, illness my guise,
in the garden of my fables, sympathy lies.
I’d rather bleed from wounds that I pretend,
than face the silence of a world where I blend.
Give me your worry, your care, let it flow,
in this masquerade, I’m the star of the show.
Is it madness or a desperate cry for a place,
in your heart, your mind, beyond this empty space?
Fabricated scenes, each a desperate plea,
look at me, please, just look at me.
So I’ll wear this mask, spin these tales, till I’m spent,
living for the echo of your concern, heaven sent.
In the fiction of my flesh, the stories I’ve sewn,
I find a tragic kind of love, in being known.