My guinea pigs are old and so 

I’ve been sleeping at the foot of their cage.

I will starve off death if I have to. Let it come,

And let it wash over my heels. You cannot kill something

That is so dedicatedly loved.  

Maybe this is the same reason I used to crawl

Into my parent’s bed as a child. I was young,

Younger still with the dreams that twisted

And wretched my forming heart. 

Knowledge is power, but sickness

Is terrifying. Death vyed to root

In my mother’s body. It painted thick, sticky mucus

Through her throat like an artist

With a crooked hand.

The delicate rustle of covers is a comfort

And a warning. Let death come. What can it do?

You cannot kill someone that is so dedicatedly loved.