Why must death tarnish,
all beauty that once was?
The rose color in my cheeks wilts,
and a wreath of hospital bracelets,
looms over my head.

My existence has the desire,
to smother your heart-
in my memoriam.

Though life never felt meaningful;
babies breath did not sprout from my throat,
not every word I speak is made from beauty.

Sickness does take it’s place below my feet,
in my genes.
But the crown of thorns, cancer will one day call my name
in the moment of a better mind frame.

The loved ones who could sympathize for ulcers
in my stomach,
can justify the
malignant tumor that grows,
taking the place of a life
that I’m able to flourish in.