WildMoonChild

I am no where near ready to die.

I rely on the winds, to carry my whispers, as I lay in this bed, staring at the same light fixtures.

I pray to gods that I barely believe in, praying for a miracle, in which I might win.

My pale skin glows in the dim lights, and I dream of the impossible, the maybes, the mights.

My medication is lined up by my side, as I pull up my duvets, I retreat and hide. I can hear the TV in the next room mumble, and I can feel my emotions taking control as I start to let go, and crumble.

The tunes of my heart hooked up to the machine is in the background, and the pace is getting faster with every pound. My body is aching, my bones are crying, and I'm struggling to understand why I'm still trying.

The chemotherapy has taken my hair, so I stay under my duvets, I'm most confident there. I reflect on the times, I wasn't here, and when the certainty of my future was still clear.

I remember the smell of freshly cut grass, and the summer barbecue's filled with laughs. I remember the smell of fragrant wine, and how we'd stumble tipsy to the table ready to dine.

I'd run my hands through my hair, and pull it off my sweat soaked neck, too hot to bare. I'd accept another glass, although I needed no more, yet I'd still wait eagerly and watch him pour more.

We'd discuss the future, the plans to come, before I had knowledge of this sickness, before I had to succumb. We'd watch the sun set behind the silhouette of our home, and we'd switch off from reality, and put down our phones.

The soft humming music from the CD inside, laying back in your arms, filled to the brim with pride.

The clouds would float to one another, and then fade away, and we'd lay out in the garden where one day our kids would play.

How beautiful it was to even exist like that, and how sad to watch it fade with the drop of a hat.

I'm feeling weaker, with every coming of the sun, and I can feel my body becoming undone. I'm shedding doubt, and I only smell the stench of fear, I'm walking closer to the light, and at death, I peer.

I hear your voice, echoing in my mind, and that's the only motivation shutting the blinds. The light slightly pierces through, but I focus my thoughts and attentions on you. I know this will break you, through and through, the end of me will be the ending of you.

I wish it could be different, I wish I could still stand a chance in this battle, but I can hear my breathing, well what's left is a rattle, death is now at the slaughterhouse, and I'm nothing but his cattle. I'm waving at you, I'm screaming my goodbyes, but I feel so cheated, I'm no where near ready to die.

Comments1

  • dusk arising

    You certainly can write from empathy.



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