A Confession to My Yellowed Self

When I pick up my pen
to write and feel human again,
You whisper into my ear,
Seizing my hand in fear,
And so I put the pen aside.

Degrading self
perplexed by liminality,
Why must you remind me of who I am,
My tainted, yellowed breath,
That I am the truth in stereotype.

And so as I perform
this soliloquy,
With a medical textbook next to me,
You stand right by my side,
Conducting my path to past railroads.

The silence of your voice
has become my favorite sound,
Yet your desire for my success,
Has trumped my desire to be
truly free.

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