I brush my bangs from my face.
It’s been a tiring night. Crimson soaks my gown
and rivers trace my cheekbones.

She told me that those who survive
have forgotten to cry;
but she has also forgotten that I was never far from death.
The collar against the hospital bed itches
on my bones
and my ribs cry in pain
at the slightest breath.

All is peaceful.
Dust rises from the blankets.
The sun stares at my salted wounds,
pointed.

When I wished that I stayed young,
it was because I had hoped
that I would never mature.
I’d long since lost my innocence,
on the day fate shot down my kin—
but maturing is much too distant
from what escaping naivety is like.

When I wished that I stayed young,
I meant that I wanted to perish with them.
When I say that I regret,
it’s not the blood on my hands,
it’s the blood in my wrist.
When I say that I look back and cry
it’s because I’ve long since abandoned
my will to survive.

“…How long do I have left?”

You did it again.
Recklessly. You’re afraid.

“Just tell me how long I have left.”

…

Two years.

…

“Alright.”