By Maggie Bowyer

All the little bits
Of pain scattered
Through my body
Like a vase
Was shattered
Inside of me.
Like my heart was
Knocked from it’s cavity,
It’s shards ricocheted
And transformed
Into the ice pick
In my shoulder;
The knife in my side;
The piercing in my hips;
The stab in my stomach.
These bits of pain add up
And never stop piling
Onto one another.
Each morning I wake
With new pain in waves,
Crashing over me,
This mourning is crushing me.
I wake up and pray
Today will be a new day,
But this disease does not yield.
I do not want to die,
But can you even
Call this living?

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