Insight

Going to sleep I place a

fingertip to my eyelid.

I lightly graze the delicate

layer of skin

trying to stop the vibration

that keeps me awake.

I imagine everything that’s touched my eyes;

the gel numbing drops and pressure meters,

dry q-tips and latex gloves-

Always under a blinding light,

which feels like a tasteless attempt to foreshadow the future.

I don’t like the way a doctor will help you

to help himself.

The fast illegible writing on a clipboard

And mumbled medical terms

they expect you to know

Because you should know.

The fast turning of his head

and notions of command to someone else,

Scribbling a diagnosis

makes no difference anyway,

I still can’t see.

Sometimes it feels like

advising precautions is some

sick game of maybes and perhapses

To keep you apprehensive

and coming back.

There is something permanent about touch.

It’s physically temporary but

everlasting in feeling.

You can’t just shake a touch,

And sometimes you don’t want to.

Like the piece of metal stuck in my eye,

Once a threat but now a companion,

I don’t know how it got there

But it shall remain.

I think of what I’ve seen and what I may never see again.

And when my eyes

tense with the squeeze of my heart,

I hope that my breathing

can calm the thumping,

Behind my lids that beat in fear.

But I remind myself that what I see today

will be different tomorrow,

and without different there is guarantee,

and guarantee is the death of me.