My hands shake;

I don’t want to go to the doctor today.

It’s lies every time;

Saying “This won’t hurt.”

Then the biggest needle pierces my skin.

This won’t happen next time I come in?

Poke along my bruised spine

with icy cold hands.

This isn’t supposed to hurt me,

but when I finally open up,

all this stuff is shoved down my throat,

and I hear them sigh when I choke…

“No more needles anymore,”

Then a bigger needle than before

drains me of more blood than I knew I could store.

I step on the scale of frailty,

and see everything that failed me:

The parents, the adults, the social workers, the teachers, the friends… 

Examine my file, finally begin to comprehend

why I can’t trust that cold room again. 

That cold room that was supposed to be warm,

but instead was full of traumatizing needles,

betraying hands, and manipulation meals. 

Say all you want, but no amount of reassurance

makes up for the frequent occurrence

of broken promises and trust deterrence. 

I can feel my own heart rate as I shake;

I’m not going to the doctor today.