If I could be He,
I'd grin ear to ear.
I'd laugh with a new voice,
and sing with boisterous cheer.

If I could be He,
I'd dance the night away.
I'd twirl around a girl,
and ask her if she'd stay.

If I could be He,
I'd no longer have to bind.
I'd lay shirtless on the beach,
and leave bottled messages to find.

If I could be He,
which I might never be,
I'd be eternally happy.
And I'd finally be me.

I had a dream that I lost you.

The ground below had shattered and fallen, leaving you over an endless void.
White knuckles from clenching the railing,
you were barely holding on.

I was on the other side of this railing, safe on a sturdy platform.
You looked up at me with wild eyes, beads of sweat trickling down your face.
I outstretched my hand.

A hoarse whisper, from chapped lips, "You don't have to do this,"
I wasn't sure why I had said that.
After all, this situation hadn't been your choice.

Still, you clung there, unmoving. Just....staring.
I took matters into my own hands, and leaned over the railing,
grabbed you by the wrists in an iron manacle grip.

And then the flood came.

A torrent of rushing water broke through the chasm
as if a dam had broken wide open.
The raging currents roared their threats at us.

Your fear quickly turned to sudden confidence,
a grim smirk spread across your face.
Ripping away from my grip.

And before I could blink
You hurled yourself into the depths
Blood-curling, piercing screams.

Pinching my arms,
I can't wake up.

It wasn't a dream that I lost you.

We weren't ready to love;
on that, we agreed.

And now as we part ways, you ask
if you killed my muse?

No, darling,
just halted temporarily.

Lies, for it is worse.
Every past love has killed a part of me.

Today my knee popped again.
For the fifteenth time since it's began.

Skinned palms from breaking my fall.
Again, the hot blade of searing pain.
I hate how these are things I can perfectly recall.

I've sworn myself not to cry;
instead, my body goes into shock.
Screaming as if I were to die.

Catching my breath, the agony is finally over.
I used to be helped up from the ground.
But now, I get the cold shoulder.

In Phy Ed. class, they whispered that it was for attention.
I found that funny, considering I hate that.
And the brace, I would never mention.

The worst kind of death
is the kind that eats away.
Year by year.

The kind of death
that saps strength
'til there's none left.

The kind of death that can't be cured; only treated.
By injecting radioactive chemicals
into her bloodstream.

The kind of death that she tells me,
"feels like I've been hit by a truck,"
every morning when she wakes up.

The kind of death that steals
her future and mine,
and causes even the hardest of heart to cry.

The kind of death that comes with a genetic mutation,
a survival rate of 10-15%,
and 4 years left to live.

The worst kind of death
is the kind of death that is killing my mom.
And eventually, will **** me.