When the doctor listens

to my heart

she hears in there

the man walking

from room to room,

cleaning up,

moving furniture,

taking down photos

and hanging new ones

in their place.


I get tired easily,

I explain as her

hand explores

my stomach.


You should eat less

fruit, she tells me.   


The man in my heart

lies on the floor

in the kitchen

now that no one

is listening.


He taps his head

on the tile.


Do you feel depressed?


Anxious sometimes.


What does it feel like?


Like I haven’t been

breathing and have

to remind myself

how it’s supposed

to be done again.


Does it happen when

you are around people?


Mostly when alone.


How is your social life?


The man in my heart

raises his fist, flips

up his middle finger.


It’s okay, I guess.


She wants to know

how many times

a week I do

certain activities:


give someone a hug

talk to my mom

walk outside barefoot

drink directly from the tap

think about death positively

rub my shins

air dry after a shower


Approximations are the best I can do.


I’d like to take another listen she asks more than tells.


I know it’s not the best time, for the man in my heart,

but I raise my shirt once more. The doctor finds him

singing. It would be beautiful, if he wasn’t so bad at it.