I just wanted to say goodbye.
Kiss my only daughter,
like I had the day she was born.
Her skin used to be smooth like silk,
but when I laid my lips on her forehead,
small flakes of skin came off on my mouth.
I did not wipe them off.

Now I am stuck kneeling over the toilet day in and day out,
and the slightest breeze will knock my frail body over
and break my bones.
I am crying blood instead of tears.

I want nothing more than to touch my husband,
to look into the shining eyes of my boy,
but I am in a white room and I
cannot get out,
cannot get out.

I want nothing more than to kiss them,
for the disease to take them over and squeeze their innards,
so we can be
a family again.

I want nothing more than to hold their hands
when I black out.

I just wanted to say goodbye.
I just wanted to say goodbye.