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Poem: Linger


What doesn't kill you
makes you weaker,
lungs burning at each breath,
the betrayal of shaking hands.

This is no firecracker display,
and I look away lest you see
the knowing in my eyes.

God, if I must die,
let me face that slow drip of pain,
with your same unwavering gaze,

and when Death comes,
let him drag me, unwilling,
silent, with haughty eyes,
middle finger held high.

-----------------------------

This was meant to be a sort of existential riff off the Esther Popel poem, October Prayer, but things went a little sideways at the end and I'm not sure if I should laugh or cry.
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