Gasping on the floor, you wouldn’t let us help you. Everyone was home, everybody saw.
Three years removed, they say you’re doing fine. You’re losing all your hair for the second time, and I don’t live there anymore, but sometimes I stop by if my apartment’s empty, or to make sure you’re alright.
They grafted your old cells and now you’re always tired, but you can’t settle down or sleep through the night. When you were in the ICU I only came and saw you once, and I couldn’t go alone. I had to take my brother with me.
I won’t be proud, just like you said, but instinct escapes me and I’m so ashamed.