I dream of a world where I don’t have
to wear a mask,
where I don’t have to pretend
that I can function normally,
even though in reality
I can barely breathe.
The world doesn’t understand
what chronic diseases do to people.
It doesn’t understand
the fear of being
in public when an attack
hits you out of nowhere
and forces you to sway in pain,
while pretending
that nothing is wrong.
When your vision fades to black,
but you keep walking to class.
When you grip the counter,
hold your breath
and pray
for the stabbing sensation to end
or at least abate a little.
When you force a smile
and tell your friends
you will go to the dance with them,
hoping the distraction will be enough.
I was taught to hide the pain,
taught that admitting
I was in pain
meant I was weak.
I have been strong for too long,
and I will have to be strong for the rest
of my days here on Earth.
Others can wear their sufferings easily,
moving through crowds wearing
ribbons that show off their strength.
I long to cry that I too have a ribbon.
Mine isn’t as well-known
as the pink we
all wear in October,
and the color
is shared with others raising
awareness for suicide.
My ribbon is yellow.
When others think of their future,
they see hope.
They see engaging careers,
loving families,
and endless possibilities.
My future is beautiful
even if
it is riddled with cycles of suffering.
I will fight
through experimental drug trials
and daily medications
to make my future
as beautiful as everyone else’s.
The very organ that brings forth life,
has instead supplied
vines of blood
that have encased my other organs
and caused nothing but harm.
A war against my own body wages.
There is no cure.
There is no treatment.
There is no end to this thing they call
Endometriosis.