a strange constellation

I am a strange constellation

of symptoms.

The mystery pierces my skin,

and then erupts

into angry boils and rashes.

Then, she disappears

leaving behind her signature ink of blood

and bruises.

 

I am a strange constellation.

A walking contradiction of bones.

Wrapped in sinew and tendons,

assembled by someone

who clearly did not read the instructions.

 

I am a strange constellation,

living in an Impressionist world.

Among figures dappled with sunlight,

I stand alone.

A Picasso.

Stared at quizzically by doctors,

checking their charts,

cocking their heads,

unable to label

my strange constellation of symptoms

into a

diagnosis.

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