This time last year I choked on every
breath I tried to take and I broke down
at every other 2 a.m. that came along.
Nights were the only time my eyes were
dry because I didn't want to cry at the
hospital. That would be too cliche
and too much for you to take.

You were supposed to die that night,
nobody expected you to live a couple
more hours and now it's been over a year.

You scared us again that December.
I didn't go to my soccer tournament
because I was too emotionally unstable
and I was sure you were going to die.
You didn't.

You were still in the hospital in January
and now you were hallucinating.
A man died in the room next door and I was
convinced that was a sign that you were next.
I'll never forget the screams of his family.
I prepared myself for that to be us.
It hasn't happened yet.

You got back your remission, but you
lost your ability to walk. You have
become the ever present voice in my ear
and your eyes beg me to save you from
your own personal hell.

But I can't save you. I've tried.
I've spent countless nights thinking about
what I could do better and what I had
already done wrong, but the lack of sleep
never inspired any solutions.

I'm sorry that I'm not your hero.
I'm sorry that he couldn't be your savior.
I'm sorry he couldn't even keep himself afloat.
But most of all,
I'm sorry that I'm waiting for you to die.