Unknown

You pull that notepad out 

as though you don't have a care in the world. 

I watch as you scribble the name 

of a drug I could never pronounce, 

in the scratch that is your handwriting, 

that you say "should" make me feel better. 

As though you know the pain I feel.

You've diagnosed it enough, 

but you've never felt it. 

The bones in your body ache, 

the nerves in your leg on fire, 

The pressure points on your back

that beg to be relieved,

when you damn well know 

you've already tried everything. 

The tightness in your knee that speeds,

lightning sharp, into your leg,

making it twist as if in torture,

when all you're doing is lying in bed...

I don't need your "sorry" or "I wish I could help"

I need your scratch handwriting 

on that important notepad

That'll help me wish 

I wasn't already dead