Sick is Not a Label

Hair couldn’t make you more beautiful

than you already are.

I wish I could help you see that.

Something eats away at all of us,

and unfortunately yours has a name,

and it begins with a c,

but I can’t say it, can’t even write it

with you in mind

because when I think of you

I see wholeness, and aliveness,

not sickness.

I remember your smile,

a smile I couldn’t believe even existed –

but there it was,

and it was everything I believe to be good about life –

all tucked away in your face.

I went home and cried afterwards,

just held my knees to my chest and cried,

and thought about how messed up it was

that I was the crying one,

and you the smiling one.

The only word I could draw to mind

when I looked back to that moment at

the hairdressers, you with a bald head,

me with a full one,

Was unfair.

Unfair.

Unfair.

I hated myself for the raw pain on your face

as each snip of my hair

fluttered to the floor.

I hated myself for having

what you didn’t.

But now I know

you aren’t the one lacking something.

I am,

and you gave me some of it,

but you’ll take the rest with you

on your trip to a grand Somewhere.

I remember hearing a stranger whisper

as you walked out the door,

leaving a silent room in your wake,

“That one’s got a fire in her eyes.”

She does, I say.

Yeah,

she does.

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9 thoughts on “Sick is Not a Label

  1. Wow, this is really nice. I always look forward to your daily output(s). Do you have a friend or relative that inspired this?

Thoughts? I love those.

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