Doctor's Note

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I’d like to be excused,
at least just my eyes,
aged beyond their time,
with each opening.
Anti love letters litter the land,
painful pills want to play.
I stand at the stove,
rebuild the meal,
rebuild the home,
though my learning arms barely reach.
Nothing burns quite like your sleeping silence,
as the rest of the world screams.
I’m old enough to read,
old enough to hear,
and old enough to wish I wasn’t.
We’re all infected,
by our host,
but nobody takes the time to tell us.
We already know,
and even when well,
the scars will speak,
every time we try and make friends.
We’re quarantined by who we are,
or where we came from,
or who we come from.

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