It's like you know they fixed you and that's all they're ever going to do, because you are broken a hundred times in the very same places. They are combing over the wounds with fresh ice to numb them. But the ice burns, and stings, and the sharp edges graze the raw seams and rip them open subtly.
It's like they're telling you over and over again you are fixed. You are. Fixed, fine, all better. They're saying the cancer is gone when really it's hiding further in your soul. They're telling you lies to get paid, and there isn't anything you can do.
Why are they wearing white coats? Is it to prove they're not the ones spilling your blood?-because that's a lie. They're taking your blood in small glasses like vampires. They're drinking away your problems, but you're not even allowed to.
It's like they told you they fixed me but they didn't, and now you're mad because I'm not better.
You ask me what's wrong when they said it was all gone.
You ask me over and over
and over
what's wrong
what's wrong
what's wrong.
What's wrong with me? Cancer. Poison.
Torture in my own head, locked tight. Who turned out the lights?
What's wrong with me?
Not me, anymore. Don't say "me".
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