what it says on the tin.
explicit trigger warnings before reading, I don't recommend reading if you're currently dealing with anxiety, loss, suicidal or self-harming thoughts.
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Well I want . . .
I knew this was coming. We both did, but it was so hard to comprehend. My thoughts immediately went to the next possible outcome as to why this had happened. I played it all out in my head, trying to wrap around it, trying so hard to prepare myself for what was to come. But even after months of preparation, days of educating myself on the diagnosis, Desperately trying to come up with a way to help him . . . to help me help him.
Somebody to hold me while I die . . .
His family hated me, they immediately blamed me when they found out what was wrong with him. I couldn't exactly blame them for it though, but I did blame the world. I was so fucking angry when I found out. The doctors gave us multiple solutions but they all ended with the same outcome. And I wasn't ready for that yet, Nobody really is.
A prayer to keep the peace I hold inside . . .
You can prepare someone for death, but not the pain that comes with it. You could never get it through to someone. I wish it was easier, I wish I could let go of him so I won't have to feel this pain. It was aching, it was practically pulling me apart from the inside. I couldn't show it to most people . . . because the hardest part about telling someone what's truly going on is watching them struggle with what to say or do in the matter, making them feel obligated to help.
A potter's field with rose petals strewn at our feet . . .
I could easily ignore the pain I felt every time I looked at his dull eyes that held so much light in them once, but I couldn't ignore the air around us. I loved him with every fiber of my being, and he was the one person I believed I was set on this earth to meet, and like everything good I've ever experienced, it leaves eventually.
And beat the blessed earth with our heartbeats . . .
Every time I glanced at him, he had a smile on his face, but unfortunately, he couldn't say the same for me when he looked my way. His purple hair was now stuffed into a large beanie, his skin stuck to his bones tightly and appeared grey and cold, his face had become dull, not the blushing boy I once knew. I always tried to keep myself together around him, but I'm not so sure how long I could do this, bottling this up inside, hiding it with big smiles and supportive conversations in hope to find a good solution out of it.
So be still when the darkness closes in . . .
He still talked with the same soft voice I remember, but what pains me most is when I'm holding him so tight against me at night in the cold hospital bed he's gotten used to, while he coughs up a significant amount of blood into a bucket. That's when the urge to cry overcomes me with such an intensity that I have to leave the room.
