On Misdiagnosis

when you go to the emergency room
they ask you to rate your pain on a scale of one to ten 

as if i had just been to a fancy restaurant 
i hope you liked getting a third degree burn! how would you rate it from one to ten?

the nurse won’t get it if i tell her that i have a stroke and
i can’t speak properly; my mouth's filled with dirt
my chest hurts from mirrored bullet holes
my limbs feel heavy and
i can already hear her response.
so like an eight?

and eventually i’ll have to tell her no, you have to prescribe me pills.
she calls it depression
i call it misdiagnosis.
we are not speaking the same language
even though we both call it english.

and i can’t stand up properly anymore.
there is a storm in my chest and i can’t find shelter.
eight, it’s an eight, i repeat like a broken record.
I am speaking her language, but she won’t listen.

i guess somewhere in me I know.
the small blue tablets won’t mend the 
cracks in the soil i call home
cracks in the red, white, and blue
cracks in
me.