Experimental Treatment

Someday,
or so you tell me,
people will be "catching" this
the same way
we all now
"catch" a cold.

I can help you, you say.
I'm supposed to want to.
I'm supposed to think it's brave.
I'm not sure which bit of this is carrot
and which is stick.

I'm supposed to be flattered
as you tell me
your eyes all greedy speculation
what a relatively healthy specimen I am.
So young, you say.  So strong.
You nearly leer.

And I'm supposed to let you
sacrifice me
on the altar of your wallet
to the god of your academic reputation
in small secret
white and glass rooms
where no bands play
no speeches are given
where all that's happening
is me being erased
by the dropful
while you watch and talk
but not to me.

So that you can, what,
take note of it?

actually, your notes will only say
that I was "not compliant"
that I "refused"
"treatment"

I think you want me afraid
I think you want me trembling as an Aztec virgin
filled with holy triumph
and a vacuum of alternatives.

Are people without choices brave?
There's always a choice,
some choice,
always.

It's supposed to be brave to pretend no fear.
It's become a requirement among the hurt and dying
proposed by Hollywood
and perpetuated on the movie of the week
(most ironically,
on the "Lifetime" channel).

If I have strength,
I shall scream as I leave you
and it won't be to bless you
for trying.

I will not embrace it
enjoy it
salute it
nor accept it.
I'm not ashamed of this.
I'm ashamed of all the fairy tales
we adults tell each other
and agree to believe.

by Sara, copyright 2001, all rights reserved