Diagnosis

I'm coming apart,
In pieces;
They seem to take a chunk of me
Out much too often,
Telling me it's for my own good.
Flesh turning black with rot,
Insides scarred by the touch of their
      cure;
It'll be all right
They say and stab me with their syringes.
I foldbendcontort in the pain,
My mind frayed in the throes
Of drugs of an unpronouncable nature,
Wanting so desperately
To believe
In the lies of hope,
Hoping that when all this comes to its
      end,
There is still enough left of me
To live.