I know that soon,

will come my last breath.

I find it a privilege,

To grieve my own death.

I think about how

the infection spreads…

as all of my memories,

painfully unthread.

Nothing else now,

seems like much of a threat.

Not fully alive,

but still not dead yet.

While in denial,

I tried to escape.

The only answer I had

Is "I have made a mistake."

Trying to grab a hold of time,

This process takes so long.

Dear Death,

I’ve feared you all along.