Doctor’s Office

it smells of vomit
and cleaning products
red chairs packed together
like in a theatre 
but the drama is only
unfolding in my head
today

no stage
for actors
to faint on
or cry on
or die on

just
the smell of vomit
sliding doors
a splash of depression 
mixed with human decay
bodies decomposing
in a brightly painted room

what a show
i think
as i try digging
deep within myself
for that spark
they told me
to cradle
and hold on to

Spiders

“What are you afraid of?” she asked.
I was silent for a minute,
then looked at her again.

“I am afraid of
growing old before my time,
of waking up one morning
and referring to my youth
instead of living it.

I am afraid of being mediocre,
I am afraid of not living
every day to the fullest.

I am afraid of growing old
without him.
I am afraid that he will stop trembling
under my touch one day.
I am afraid of growing old in my ways,
of burning up before my time.

That is what I am afraid of.”

She did not speak.

“Does this answer your question?”

She smiled, and sipped her coffee.
“A simple ‘spiders’
would have sufficed.”