die

I stink. The essence of my wish wisps off my skin in foul dissatisfaction— My wish is for death. I sit here silently wishing for the death of the woman beside me. She is dying already, but not fast enough. Her defiance wrinkles my nose, makes my lips pucker She smells as bad as me. How long will she go on believing she is alive? Her daughters reek of the same scent; Even though the doctors said hospice, The cancer said stage four, The scans said tumors unshruken, And the woman’s skin, face, organs, say 80 years old. They all seem to believe more surgery, more chemo, and a different opinion will mean more time, smaller tumors, more life… But she is already dying. How can they not see? She’s already 80 for god sake. I understand your denial, Death is a hard friend to invite in to your house, But what time can be bought with chemicals, pills and denial? What quality of life is that? And what about the people who care for you woman? The ones who must bear witness to your denial, push your pills, walk you down the stairs, pay for your treatment, keep watch over the house while you nap, and force you to eat food you do not want. I see your narcissism now, That of which my mother warned. You are guilty of clinging to life, It is not an uncommon sin. What boils my blood most is that you are 80, My best friend died at 19, A month short of her 20th birthday; She fought hard for her life— deservedly so. She deserved 80 more years, Yet accepted death when it came knocking on her door. So tell me why you, old woman, get more time. Tell me why. Because right now I can’t accept this, I’m fuming foul odors of vengeful death For you And I don’t like it, Not one bit. Tell me why you won’t just give up and die And tell me why I want my grandmother to die so much.