Reblog: Untreatably Me. John of Woodsy is one of my favorite poets. This work is phenomenal.
I’ve hit a place where everything dies.
Or maybe I’m simply dying for a hand,
like it’s really there…
and walking me free
someone real I used to be
but never quite got the hang of.
But what I don’t want…
What I don’t want is your help.
I don’t want any more of your tests
and your sad,
scary waiting rooms
and your scanning, seeing, sorting machines,
running on clockwork
and fairy tales.
I don’t want a thousand ways to label me away.
I don’t want a number or a code
or a class
to teach me out of darkness.
I wither in your heartless light
and on your silly bloody charts.
I don’t want your pills
or your sick notes
or your half-hearted dose of talk therapy
with a diagram thrown in.
I don’t want your cold,
and your smug, dead eyes,
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