I am a wuss.

I am a wuss.

Hysteria

It is wrong to call her crazed

But she was distraught

At what life had wrought upon her.

The weft of uncertainty

The knitted brows

Of the doctor

The needle, sharp in her arm

Always bringing her down

To earth

With a crash

Tied down for her own good.

Electrical current

Coursing through her brain

At various times

For the benefit

Of good health and well-being,

As if it was an exclusive spa

Frequented by gentry

Of a certain age.

Smoke and mirrors

Unguents and potions

Assuming alchemy

Is a reality

Given more shrift

Than an expression of grief

For an existential loss.

When the imbalance

Of chemicals is biological

The female form

A foreign land

To the old hands

The aged patricians

Dishonerable physicians

The body snatchers

Resurrectionists, eugenicists

And key holders

Who insist

They all know what is best

For the pretty little maid

With a bad attitude

Rapid eye movement

And ambitious demands.