"They say it's treatable "
I look at my shoes hoping she'll look at one of our companions instead.
"It has a low mortality rate."
I dig my fingers into my palm
"Especially with someone as fit as me."
I squeeze my eyes shut.
"You'll be fine, then. You'll win out of spite."
"Yeah, there's no chance you'll die."
I wish I was far away from here.
"Please say something,"
She pleads I glance up and stare in her blue eyes.
All I can think is that I've heard this all before with a boy I was never supposed to be older than.
"When does your treatment start?"
I ask instead.
It's just a dream, a cruel joke orchestrated by my messed up mind.
YOU ARE READING
Poems From Junior Year
PoetryA collection of poems from Nov 2016 to Aug 2017 that I was too scared to actually publish at the time.
