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.
