Six months they quoted,
          but although I felt spent,
     stubbornness and fear,
     bled though angry veins,
     and blistering bones,
          settling in the crevices
          between muscles and nerves,
               just below my heart.

Thump…thump…da-thump.

My stomach revolted,
     leaving an unsavory taste
     in my mouth, in my throat,
          as I attempted to conceive
          how I would deliver the news
     to those I loved:
               for now – shhhhh!.

The struggle occurred each night
     as I strived to deny the succubus
     that filtered through consciousness
     and caused me to wake up drenched:
          another symptom revealed,
     hoping to live to the ripe age of twenty-five;
     I fantasized that the results were erroneous,
          but upon a second diagnostic,    
          I was asked to appear to the lab,
          an appointment I never honored,
               my body whispering the truth
                   to neglectful ears.
 
Every symptom: cold, fever, headache,
     swollen glands, fever blister, nausea
               all meant my pungent demise,
          a time to make amends,
          keep failed promises
     that I was too proud to consummate,
          for fear that my secret,
              a tainted taboo,
          would eternally scorch my reputation,
          so I kept quiet, put in my place,
              swallowing anxiety,
              and hollow solitude.

Thump…thump…da-thump.

I had responsibilities to uphold:
     graduation from college,
          a full time job,
              where absence
          was considered deplorable,
     my volunteer commitment
          to the crisis hotline
          where I assisted the destitute --
              I should be a client,
              I obtusely observed,
              not a counselor.

No treatment options available,
          I winged life like a drifter
     ready to pounce on the next train car,
     an attempt to flee the bristling scorpions
          that inhabited clustered thoughts,
               but there was nowhere to bolt.

Twenty-five came and went with internal fanfare,
     and miraculously, thirty also thrived,
          even as my health subsided,
     my immune system resentful and defiant,
          curing this virus that devoured
              and flourished.
     Medication presented an arduous task:
          side effects toxic, causing
          me to lose twenty unanswered pounds
              in two months, the aroma
              from my favorite meals
              resulting in an upheaval
              from below, a daily process
              as my body attempted to absorb
              the “approved” poison selected
              by a field of physicians --
                   a bunch of bullshit:
                   test results produced
                       no gains.
         Neuropathy, chronic fatigue and depression      
              proved to be my worst enemies.

And in the end, I am here, present, blossoming.
     Six months? No one can judiciously surmise
          when your time has been expunged,
              nor can the human spirit
              be denied unfulfilled dreams,
              castles spinning in the air,
          permitting fundamental growth to emerge,
              a poet borne from the nether regions,
              spewing ink from a belabored quill,
                   final satisfaction
                        and atonement.