A patient’s poem on invisible illness and trauma-informed care
You tell me it is all in my head.
As though my head were a small room where false alarms
ring for sport,
like I have no better way to spend my time and life.
You hold films up to the light,
of bones and blood,
nothing cracked or out of place,
or a catastrophe waiting in the wings
that has earned a name in your stack of books.
My blood you have drawn
has traveled through your machines
and has …
A patient’s poem on invisible illness and trauma-informed care
