because fistfulls of curl are twisted reminders that clog the drain,
and clog my faith.
last week, i may have lost my membership to this pale Irish skin
when i couldn't pay the co-pay.
"it's just twenty dollars," said the lady in the pretty white sweater.
but angel, when you've been to the doctor three times a week
and you miss work to see the doctor,
that means you're out sixty dollars,
plus every hour of sick time that you don't actually have because you're in the hole because they don't have enough sick time for a girl whose kidney is failing.
plus it costs four dollars for the first hour to park.
but this really isn't about money.
it's about my body.
i want to shout on the footsteps of every insurance company,
every drug company,
every emergency room trying to cash in on me.
"these freckles are mine,
this port-whine birthmark is mine,
these blue eyes are mine,
these skin cancers are mine,
this failing kidney is mine.
how dare you profit off what is not yours.
and since i have the floor,
how is it that we are in the 21st century and treating pain with poison?
percocet, percodan, darvocet, vicodin, codeine
i've got an addict's gold mine in my medicine cabinet,
stockpiled and pretty,
because my pain is mine."
i do not want to donate to this disaster,
and yet i need it to survive.
damn my mother for being a nurse who practiced medicine like it was an art.
she held the hands of her patients.
"goodwill," she said.
mama, i wish i could stop at the goodwill,
and donate all these bags of clothes that don't fit anymore
for one kidney.
it's time to clean the drain.