Like the broken wing of songbird, my head hangs limply about my shoulders. Bowed in resignation, I pay homage to powers I can no longer resist nor deny. Reluctantly, I allow my skin to soak in this broken, gray home I’ve built for myself. Like bathwater that’s gone cold, it offers no comfort; and like a tree’s sap, it clings to me.
My health has been stolen from this young body. I have submitted; the flame of fight died long ago and the memory of its light has finally sputtered out. With true darkness comes a plague baring the pit that grows in my gut and the lump that chokes the air from my throat. And as my lungs catch fire, they scream for my heart – crying out for help. A heart full of blood to put out the flames that lick their way up soft, pink tissue, but there is no relief to be found. There is no heart full of blood, only a note that says, “Looking for greener pastures. I’ll be sure to send a postcard.”