Brandy Lien Worrall-Soriano

How many prayers, how many times I’ve begged and begged and begged for mercy, 

     how much will that pitying relief yield me in the end, when unrelenting pain is all that keeps coming down this maze of twisting suffocating sheets, like a noose around my neck, if only.

I’ve fantasized about some such accident that will release me gracefully out of this damnedable place, and what did I do to deserve this, other than be born,

    is all I could figure out, and maybe a hundred little white lies to my doctors about bowel movements and blood work and how long I wait after I take my Synthroid in the morning before I have my first cup of coffee.

Chronic as the days and nights are long, and I can’t manage to find that sweet spot, no matter how hard I try, it eludes me like an orgasm eludes a lot of women, even after all those years and women’s magazine articles with advice telling them how to achieve one.

My elderly Asian mother—whom everyone seems to think is cute—tells me on the phone that all this pain is my fault somehow, none of it hers, because if anyone is to blame, and trust me, someone is, it’s me for being a lazy smart dog, and not the doctor-kind that’s rich and takes care of her. Asian parent guilt is as relentless as my chronic pain, and will drive anyone just to the brink of madness.

There is no pill right now to help me with my affliction. The only thing to soothe me would only hurt the ones I love. 

So I endure. And hope for a better today, tomorrow.