My mama said don't let your sickness define you
but sometimes my sickness was all I had,
just me and the sadness inside me
as real as wine red blood,
pulsing hot and fast and angry,
gnashing its teeth at the spindles of yarn
...which are my veins.
No glitter,
or fancy names.
Just blood and anger,
sadness,
and disease.
I shut my ears
to her wisdom,
not wanting to wake up
and stomach the pain.
Instead I plopped down on the dirt,
and became the toad,
or maybe in another's eyes,
the hare
thinking the story wouldn't end as good
this time around.
I faintly heard things whispered like
"this too shall pass"
but it felt too big and heavy on my chest
to just...pass.
It seemed like the weight was far too bulky
to just be lifted off my shoulders
and thrown away.
