The Diagnosis
By Vanessa Vu
When a wound refuses to close,
you drag it like excess weight
into your local doctor’s office.
They name it heartache,
a recurring anomaly,
unremarkable in its frequency
but alluring in its persistence.
No glass vials or numbered capsules
can return a heart to factory condition.
The ache enters your bloodstream,
threading itself through marrow,
hitting sporadically at your skull.
You will ask them to intervene,
to authorize addictive painkillers,
tablets shaped like white moons.
You swallow them whole
or fracture them between your teeth.
You will attempt to trade your heart,
a replacement, a donor’s specimen
with fewer serrated edges.
Hoping your blood vessels will heal,
and flow without their miserable beat.
But the symptoms are deceptive.
They’ll soften. Retreat.
They archive themselves quietly
until you remember how to smile—
until you wake drenched in sweat,
certain something inside you
has shifted again.
You’ll pass your palm to your chest,
as if you might extract your soul.
But your case has been reviewed.
The diagnosis is not terminal.
It is chronic. They will document it.
They’ll label it, categorize your pain
because it will not kill you,
it will only keep you on display.