You rang me on New Years,
Crying,
Just as I had managed to forget,
And told me we'd get through this together.

And I wept more for your case
Than I ever did for mine
As they told me
"Common things are common"
Though you insisted
That your cysts were sinister.

Even if you really were
Under your 'mother's maiden name',
You never told me
That you were alright,
When I had more than enough
Pills, injections and appointments
To worry about
Than asking my father to look for you
When neither your name nor conscience,
Were anywhere to be seen.

I've always had my doubts about places of fire and brimstone
But never wished it on anyone, nevertheless,
And nor do I now.
But I do believe
In places of eternal sleeplessness, nausea and screaming children on long haul flights,
And that there is an seat reserved for you,
With no legroom.

When I broke down, as the bus did,
On our way to maths,
I was thankful for you.
As you should be of me,
That I haven't told anyone
You lied to an ill young girl
For attention.

And still I think,
You're sicker than I ever was.