My doctor speaks. I hear garbled vowels and consonants chewed into small bits and pushed around his mouth like smashed pieces of marbles.
He stutters then vomits. Words tumble from his lips, broken thoughts which should have been left unsaid. I close my eyes, afraid of seeing more, fearful of taking in too deep a breath.
I search my purse for paper and pen to write the ways in which he sickens me. Casting my diagnosis aside for the moment, I write down my frustrations about him in haiku form. Short and sweet.
He reads it but refuses to understand, dismisses my words with a shake of his head. My mind leans towards the scientific, he belches. More crushed letters fall from his mouth. Beauty and romance have always been lost on me.
Finally, two sentences victorious in maintaining some cohesion. He tries to befriend me with a half grin which looks more like a cruel smirk.
A wasted gesture of fake kindness. Beauty creates, I tell him. Romance touches the heart. He’s still unable to comprehend my words.
He holds no connection to things of beauty. I crumble the piece of paper containing my haiku. The poem folds into itself, my words twisting and splitting apart.
The haiku, unable to hold all my anger in its limited lines, grows into a sonnet. Still, my doctor shakes his uncompromising head:
No to beauty, no to the possibility of me over-coming my illness, no to a fairy tale happy ever after life.
I stand up. With nothing more to be said, I walk out of his office. Goose bumps spread across my skin as the receptionist ask if I would like to make a follow-up appointment.
Arlene Antoinette is a writer who enjoys dabbling in poetry, flash fiction and song lyrics. Additional poetry by Arlene may be found at Foxglove Journal, Cagibi Lit, Better Than Starbucks, With Painted Words, London Grip, Literary Heist and Your Daily Poem.