Thoughts from an MRI

As I lay here, I wonder how much empty the doctors will find.

If there is some sort of pill to be prescribed

That can fill my vacant spirit, the kind

Like the circles traced in wood inscribed.

Maybe they’ll observe my feeble nerves

So weak from you always being on them— you cling.

My thoughts collapse, my vision swerves,

Everything I know to be true is gone— my paranoia shall sing.

The nurses will gasp, the technicians will see

This is the most transparent I will ever be.

By: Laura DeLuca

Feature image credit