Just a Cold()

Have I been sick all this time?

Begging and pleading for my health not to decline.

Did your wish come true? Or was it mine.

This sickness in my mind.

I was desperate for it to be worse enough

that it would show. 

Wanted them to believe me, that something was wrong. That they left me all alone.

But it's gone too far, gotten too bad. Integrated too deep that I can't pull it back.

I feel too weak for the cure. For the chemo that wrecks.

Need to kill the sickness, deep down at its roots. But once it's pulled out, it'll rip me in half.

Supposed to want to live, and be scared to die. But waiting for death was more comforting, then running away, desperate to stay alive.

It feels now I'm scared to death, of losing what I've found while I've lived.

But I'm supposed to let that go, not hold on to it. Let go of your life, but don't wish for death.

What's there in the middle. What's left?