I was from the jungle on the wall, 

from white coats and clipboards, 

from lingering antiseptic.

I was from “it’s just a cold”

from the gift shop teddy bear, 

Tylenol and Tums. 

I was from waiting rooms and parents holding hands, 

leaning on my mom’s shoulder, 

eager to return home.

I became the unanswered questions, 

the inconclusive blood tests, 

the neverending bills. 

I became “why isn’t she getting better?”

the whispers and mournful looks, 

Omeprazole and Ranitidine. 

I became my mother’s anxiety pills, 

my father’s grasping hugs, 

my sister’s loss for hope. 

I am from an incomplete diagnosis, 

7 meticulous words with no meaning,

barricading my aspirations.

I am from “don’t give up hope”

 Metoclopramide, and Dexlansoprazole,

clinging to the lasts of my childhood.

I am from the love of my family, 

wishful for one thing:

to regress to when it was just me and the jungle on the wall.