The needle might sting  
but it’s not my pain 
not the kind that leaves a scar.

I sit in a tiny room  
with a lifetime of medical bills 
because there’s no cure.

I know I won’t die today, or tomorrow,  
unlike my neighbors 
whose body lies beneath a scratchy sheet
kissed by death’s tumors, arthritis, unknown.

Meanwhile, I mask the silence of Crohn’s
allowing it to hold the trigger 
because I know it could be worse, 
I could be like them.

But outside, I see the light—
brighter than the flicker of dull fluorescents. 
Sometimes I get to see the birds. 
Sometimes, in spring, bunnies. 

And when the bag shrivels, the drip stops, and tape peels my flesh…

I plaster the smile 
thanking them for their time 
stepping into the great big world 
and decide— 
even on a day it rains— 
that today 
was a good day.