Arthritis that’s not too bad but psoriasis that is.
Constantly disgusted by myself and
no one will know because
I do not want them to know.
Part of life, the daily worry of people noticing.
I fear the public ridicule.
Swelling and aching? Not as much in the past year,
not as much as in seventh grade
when I lay crying, trying to tie my shoe before school.
Everytime a finger swells I am sent back and trapped in a box and I can’t breathe and there is no hope.
The psoriasis is always here and it always wants to say hello.
I change the way I part my hair so it cannot receive the attention it craves.
When classmates say that they are old people with arthritis simply because they cannot get up from a chair,
I am reminded that I am
a young old lady.
Medicines are constantly changing, like my heart beating faster and faster in apprehension to the big switch.
Shot every Thursday to every two weeks to every month but then back to every Friday as a precaution.
Constant checking, and I worry
Will everything get worse again?
Please do not put me back on the pills again,
for I cannot swallow them without pain and thoughts coming back of when I could not eat.
New shot accompanied by tears of joy,
Tears in the clinic and hugging the nurse because this is so much better than the old.
Every three months.
Will everything be
I hope of everything getting better.
I am renewed and I will wear my hair up and I won’t constantly pop my knuckles and I will be happy.
And when people say that they’re old because their joints hurt when getting up from a chair,
I will be reminded that I am strong
and my youth has been given back to me because of
my new medicine.