Don’t judge me
By old stains
Left streaked
Across these tiles
When exposed
To daily footprints
Where thick dirt
Which tramples faith
Drags its filth
Beneath these lights
Under halos
Cold and focused
Like bright angels
Casting shadows
In exam rooms
Chasing scars

Making space
For sudden death
While fluorescents
Mock this prison
Showing tarnish
Through their beacons
Of attentions
Meant to maim
As I suffer
Bitter ends
At these hands
No victim warrants
Proving doctors
Claim their talents
By exerting
Biased grace

And technique
So fucking harsh
That each forcep
Squeezes tightly
Like gray ice
Upon my body
Freezing quickly
What they touch
With their shine
So oddly blinding
Only God
Would be as subtle
As He worked
Without intention
Of protecting
Life as weak

Smelling bleach
Within those halls
Just outside
My gleaming dungeon
Begging white
Much like this flooring
Which reflects
A soiled dream
That I waste
From getting sick
Tracing grief
Around each corner
Finding hurt
Instead of answers
Seeking cures
Their science fakes.

– J. Pigno