Voices - 3 Poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr

And he sat in front of me,
In a considerably comfortable distance
That I yield – to ameliorate my condition.
He held his pen, and examined me.
Flashed pictures to analyze me.
But I am pretty sure,
He will never, ever understand.

Why, what’s wrong?
My head hurts.
Must be delirium headache.
Maybe. What ever that is.
I never told him,
As he listened sternly
To my woes.
Directly, he swathed me with questions
And I encumbered him with answers.
And he asked if my head still ached –
But he never asked me if my skin ached,
If my eyes hurt too much
Or if I have lost too much appetite –
But then, he’d ask me those in a little while.
But he will never ask me
If I froze on a park bench,
If I quivered when I rode the bus on my way home,
If I fumbled in my speech every time
I tried to align reason and the circumstances
He never will.

He sent me home, with a prescription
That says Haloperidol
And with it, a minuscule writing
Was inscribe that reads:
Keep it intact.

And I was petulant.
I wanted to shed and peel my skin off
And leave it marred at the corner
Of his clinic –
And from then,
He’d try to wear my own skin
And tell me,
Now I know how it feels.