Being Marked

The bracelet is plastic. Light blue.

My name printed there. It's true—

my date of birth. My whole self

reduced to text. I marked myself.

I looked down at my wrist

and couldn't resist

the feeling that something was wrong.

Not the wrist. The marking. The wrong.

Patient. That's what I am now.

Not a person. I don't know how

I became a category.

A thing to be tracked. A story.

The weight of it is nothing.

It's plastic. It's light. But something

sits on my wrist and reminds

me it's there. It binds.

I tried to adjust it.

It stayed where it is. Sit

with it. That's what they said.

It's tight enough to read.

My name looks wrong in that font.

My birth date is a want

I didn't choose. Evidence

of something. Consequence.

I'm wearing a label now.

Wearing proof that somehow

something is wrong with me.

That I need to be marked so they see.

I'm marked. I'm tagged. I'm found.

I'm the thing they come around

to check on. I'm the song

they're waiting for all along.