There's something up in his brain
It's not letting him stay
He's not going insane
Just being a victim of prey

Taking off-side his retina
They cut his hair off for a splatula
The sweetest boy of five
Who had readily to thrive

Graduating to first grade
Happiness did not last - and bade
In two months there came a blow
In the form of a malignant grow

Paralyzed him from hips below
Sucked out his willingness to play
Losing weight, no strength in tow
Dreading the last breath every day

He doesn't know what struck him now
Except that his mother's eyes are broken somehow

The girl who was strong, her body parts strength shining through on her face

The girl who was strong, her smile sending goose bumps over every one’s arms

The girl who was strong, her heart beating slowly as she lay down for bed

The girl who was strong, her mother watched over stroking her bald head

The girl who was strong, and she never woke up

The girl who was strong, just not strong enough

It's a tough pill to swallow.
I want to fucking puke.
This feeling in my stomach,
like I swallowed a live nuke.

They just give me pills to swallow
and run a lot of useless tests.
I tried so hard to keep it away,
to fight it off but it infests.

I hate these pills I swallow.
I feel the cancer in my veins.
It's consuming my body
and fucking with my brain.

It's not your pill to swallow.
I wouldn't blame you to leave.
This isn't your battle to fight.
This battle belongs to me.

I don't want these pills to swallow.
I want to give up and let it win.
Poetic for my life to end,
just as I'm ready for our life to begin.

TW: suicide / cancer / brutal imagery

july isn't a good month for me
it is a collection of all the things
i have had taken away. it is a
bitter winter chill through a
summer i do not get to enjoy.
july is lonely.
it breaks apart all the other months
like a pack of werewolves; it is
their alpha and i have six months
before everyday is a full moon
and my legs are tired of running
from it. i have six months to
enjoy the fresh scent of crisp air,
to feel the iciness of snow without
shivering through my skin. i try
to break out of this body, try to
knit myself a new one out of
preloved sweaters hoping their
stories will become my own so that
i may have a july worth talking about.
suicide happens all year round but
your suicide happened in july and
has happened every month in my
mind since. i have lost count of the
way i try to contact you to say
i'm sorry.
maybe my spiritual journey wasn't
my own; i convince myself the
universe will show me your face again
one day and i hope it is not in july.
people suffer from cancer throughout
everyday of the year but you suffered
in july. i watched the sunset through
hospital windows, smelt more chemicals
than fresh flowers, held back more
tears than my throat knew how to
swallow. has anyone ever drowned
without being submerged in water?
i have.
i imagined cracking my skull off the
glass confining you to this ward, to
this smell of microwave meals and
this buzzing of machines echoing
like an emergency and my heart is
on standby, i imagined it would give
the ward some colour because i am
so sick of seeing white.
and this july
this july,
i hold your hand as your treatment
continues. i do not feel the sun on
my face because you cannot feel it
on yours. i watch the sunset through
windows. carry the bodybag of my
soul around in "i'm fine" and "i'm okay."
i don't think my voice could drip
with any more sadness as i envision the
words cascading down glass panels
hoping if i spell it out for the world
to see, someone will stop and ask me
why i hate july, or at least,
if i'm okay.

I see you smile so bright
I heard you laugh so hard
I felt your touch that so warm
I know that your heart beats so fast.

So please hold on tight
And fight for your life
So us can survive
And every dark will be light.

The bald little boy
turned to his father
sad entreating eyes
wordlessly
both hands up
clawing the air
as if squeezing
invisible rubber balls.

Dad reading Newsweek
a distraction from his local terror
saw the silent request
turned routinely
pulled out of a canvas bag
a fuzzy white lobster
handed it to his son
who held it to his chest.

What cynic said
love is not redemptive?