What if I learn that I’ll die


rather than later?

Will my trepidation be greater?

Will I find


before I lose my mind?

Will my days be spent

in a wheelchair,

bent over,

scratching at my painted nails

like my mother,

knowing vaguely

that red is not my color

and never was?

I could fill a piece of paper

with names that I want to remember

but won’t.

With codes and passwords

that are supposed to protect me

but don’t.

With words that I can no longer spell

and stories I can no longer tell.

But why try to remember at all?

Just hang me on your wall.

Like a painting at auction

I am going, going, gone.