In lieu of a diagnosis, my doctor tells me to never give up

on writing, or I guess in general. On the precipice of both,
and maybe a public breakdown, I struggle to leave the room, begging,
don’t you see? Please. I’ve gone red. He says goodbye, and you are healthy,

so I seek comfort from the office bathroom
mirror, because I must not have stared long enough to believe it. I say oh god, I am so
unhealthy, and all there is to see is a boy crying

wolf in a wolfless building, blinking blurry Rorschach skulls, in and out and in, in-
visible toxins in and in and in and
everything is a carcinogen, anymore.

I convince myself of cancer and hysteria, simultaneously.
Of privilege and pathetics, equal victim and nuisance. I’m
both ready to die and scared to be sick. I’m

writing it down because it’s the doctor’s order:
it’s half panic attack on a word document;
it’s half nothing at all. 

---

Steven C. Wright (he/him) is a queer poet and prose author from Edison, New Jersey. He has a B.A. in English from Rutgers University-New Brunswick and runs a small poetry workshop group every week. His work has appeared in Frontier Poetry, Serotonin Press, BRAWL, and elsewhere.

Twitter: @stevencwright_
Instagram: @stevencwright_
Bluesky: @stevencw.bsky.social