To you, who liked my poetry.

You,

the ache on my side

in my chest

on my mind,

A puncture hole

from which I bled

for years,

and years, you

watched me

writhe in pain

pulling out hairs

soaked in tears,

you stood there,

you, Proud Doctor,

Saver of Lives,

as I begged you

to save me.

I had died then,

you know?

Parts of my soul

you had killed,

the sobs echo

in the gaping hole

you left

and I am left

screaming at the void,

spinning into darkness.

God, I loved you.

You, who liked my poetry.

May this poem haunt you

for life.