I'm so worried about everyone else dying,
and yet I'm the one who's going.

The door is at my neck and I'm still talking,
saying prayers while I'm being layered
with everything worse than anything cancerous.

My heart seems to ask questions,
wondering whose chance this is.

Speaking of the golden rule like I'm not buried
in gym socks and thoughts of second chances.

Fancy myself some kind of mancer,
hoping I start myself going,
stop myself from slowing.

I dreamt of you and woke up to go hug my mother,
I'm tired now, and moments ago me feels like another.

Staying still but rocking back and forth,
it's like a sway and fear what it has to say.

Maybe I'm lost, or finding myself in my own lost ways.
I don't know, and neither do you, I suppose,
is the best we can say.