I *think* this is Misery and Despair by Jules Breton. There wasn’t a caption so I’m guessing based on me really liking that title for this piece.

(358) Stale

I’m in my home stretch; it’s my final few feet and I had my words lined and primed and refined. I’m so close I can see a gate, my gate, the wrought finality of consistency I never thought I’d achieve. I’d made it except

My inboxes are filled with people asking for my story
My phone is filled with messages, question-songs for my life
My screens, my eyes, blink the demand across my dried hope

Tell the story of your preexisting condition

Like I haven’t told it before
screamed it
Like I haven’t whispered it into toilet bowls and cried it into dogs’ backs and snarled it at bloodied sites and mangled cannulas and lumpy red scar tissue all across my thighs. 
Like I haven’t lived it loudly and without hesitation 
Like the rest of my entire life
Like this isn’t yet another pathetic attempt to pretend that I am audible
to anyone

And I have other battles to fight, I have wounds that bleed somehow more and always, and I have strands that pull and will not rest while they fray and knot in my frantic neglect. I can’t tear my personal blight from my rotting disdained heart again, for you, I can’t spare the fleeting eternity it would take to show you its historied pus and soft tiered scabs. I have to stand and ripping my shoulders from what they carry will leave me struck, flat. I have to focus, always, on our dustiest corner because I love the humanity that nestles there and

I can’t tell you that story
again
maybe say it for me
because you already know it
you’ve heard me
so maybe say it for me

if you believe it.