If I were to be cured,
I can only wonder if my personality would be
cured as well.

I disgust myself,
To think that all I am
Is this disease
That could someday evaporate
Like my happiness has for the past four years.

And I wonder,
Would I know happiness to find it?
Would I know the words to say,
In place of my melodic melancholy.

I don’t know.
I simply won’t know
For a very
long.

As I wait, to be cured,
Of a disease that swallows life like air,
Perhaps when they find the cure,
I will be dead already.