Hospitals don't bother me,
they are simply too familiar.
A sterile second home.
Needles are my friends,
I welcome their tiny pin pricks.
The clear tube turned dark crimson,
part of me whisked away to be tested and analyzed.

Hospitals don’t bother me
because when you grow up broken,
you learn to appreciate those who fix you.
Bright colors and gleaming grins welcome you,
because they know your secret,
that inside you are filled with a darkness.

Hospitals don't bother me,
doctor upon doctor takes a shot at a diagnosis
lupus says one,
it’s just a sunburn says another.
Eventually one hits the mark,
Juvenile Dermatomyositis
A mouthful of words that simply means my body is a battleground,
fighting a losing battle.
The opposing teams, my immune system versus my muscles,
a civil war.

Hospitals bother me,

because at three years old I became a soldier.
Toys replaced with steroid shields,
Prednisone
Plaquenil
the keys to my survival.
I walk in and the nurse knows me by name.