I'm not good at taking care of the people I love.
I can make a cup of tea, but I will still hand it to you
with shaking hands,
hands that want to strangle the illness out of you.
I can tuck a person in at night, but I will begin living out
a nightmare,
a nightmare that begins as soon as I extinguish the light and take my mask off for the day.
I can go to the doctors office, but my brain will process any form of news as negative,
news that flaunts around a stage and presents optimism,
will still reinforce that the end is near, that a show cannot last forever.
I can go to a prison, or a house and visit, but I will tremble with anger at the situation, maybe direct it at a person who is chained both physically and mentally.
I can continue to walk through the normal motions of life, but I will be triggered,
triggered by the thought of losing the ones I care for most, by the fact that I will never do enough, say enough, be enough, and when I do it will be the ugliness of a disease spreading in me, a cancerous trauma that I have lived with my whole life.