On My Terms

I don't want to die.

But my body keeps trying—

why?

I should be running through fields,

not dreading what the end yields.

Why does my blood

pulse with mutiny?

Oxygen kept from cells—

hypoxia.

I have held this body

gently—

nourished it

with food.

Hydrated it

with liquids.

Filled it

with forgiveness.

Dragged it

kicking and screaming

through years it swore

it would not survive.

So why then

must my body turn against me

like an animal trapped—

chewing through itself

to escape?

I've ingested

treatments and cures—

placebos—

bottled ultimatums,

poisons with kind names.

They say:

take this

and lose your appetite.

Take this

and lose your sleep.

Take this

and lose your memory,

your strength,

your hair,

your teeth,

your hunger for life.

Take this

until survival itself

folds into a waiting room.

I don't want my last words

to ride on the

air conditioning,

heavy with the ghosts

of hospital rooms.

To filter through

machinery,

stripping soul from breath.

Too many have died

there already—

beneath fluorescent heavens

that never knew stars.

I hear them sometimes.

Not in voices,

but in the cold machinery hum

that says:

be free—

but not like me.

So if death must find me,

let it find me

on my terms.

Let it find me

living free and wild,

not hooked up to machines.

I will not be reduced to

wristbands,

charts,

dosages,

insurance forms.

Because I don't want to die.

But if my body insists,

then let me go

as someone still living,

not a shadow pinned to sheets.

________________________________

I’m sharing this not for sympathy, but because chronic illness can be incredibly isolating. If you’ve ever felt like your body was a battleground, I hope these words remind you that you aren’t fighting alone.

This poem comes from the frustration and uncertainty that accompany chronic illness. Too many nights that should have been spent out on the town were instead spent in the ER. Too many days that should have been spent with my children were instead lost to being drugged in bed.

It is a declaration from someone whose independence and livelihood are slowly fading away: when I go, I will not go quietly. I will go loudly, colorfully, and unapologetically me.