~06/2014: Fairy Tales Are Documentaries Written by Liars

Sometimes I go to the Doctor for no reason
It's comforting. Everything is sterile
And the Doctor has to believe
everything you say
even if there's nothing wrong with you.
Then they pretend
they can fix
what never existed

But there's some things even they can't pretend to fix.

Sunday morning, on my way to the Doctor
I cross paths with a pregnant woman on her way to church
she is holding a baby at her breast
I look at her, confused
She doesn't seem to mind,
she turns and asks, "Would you like to hold her?"
"No," I respond,
"I need to get something from the Doctor.
Besides, I have a habit
of dropping fragile things."

Her gaze intensifies; concern
not for herself, or her baby
but for me, "You're a healthy young man,
what's wrong that only a doctor can fix?"

The gravity pushes my chin to my chest, and forces out a with-held breath
as I clench my salt-watered eyes

I open them to a fairy tale.
The sunrise peeks curiously
over the castle wall
wondering if it's safe to come out
The greenest grass I have ever gazed upon
grows until it grazes the grout where the granite begins

A beautiful woman
in the tower window
beckons my name.
I could tell she built the castle herself,
maybe with the help of men.
Definitely because of them.

The blueprint confirmed my thought, but her fingerprints
mark something unexpected, "I forgot to make a way out
which had never bothered me before,
but now I've found a reason to leave."
I cannot hear the reason in her words
nor can I see the spark in her eye,
but I can feel her pulse in my soul

And for the first time
I let myself believe in a fairy tale

I tell her to jump
"No matter what happens, I will catch you"
She leaped

A cloud of white lace billows from the heavens
and I listen to the requiem
of her screams meeting earth.
The unborn fetus in her stomach
explodes like an egg,
staining the greenest grass
crimson-red with gore

A broken rib
impales her back
with pieces of what I would guess
was her heart (I have never seen one before)
dangling from the end

"Sir? Sir are you okay? Sir?"
I wonder how long I've been at the Doctor's office.
"Sir, is something wrong?"
"Yes," I muster, quavering, "I'm very sick,
I need another pill."

I arrive back at her house
She smiles my favorite smile,
the one that reveals the dimple below her left eye,
opens the door,
and kisses me on the cheek
"I thought you were never coming back," she half-jokes 

I don't smile. I don't laugh. I don't move forward. I never move forward.
Instead, I mumble, "Take this right away,"
and let the pill clang into the mail slot,
as I trudge towards the sun,
and it hides behind the horizon.

I'll never forget that dimple
I hope the doctor can fix that too.