I lay awake in the whitewashed bed,
its sheets crisp as winter air.
Pain wrapped herself around me,
a lover with arms of iron.
She whispered through my bones,
a storm coursing in my veins.
For a moment, morphine’s lullaby
rocked me into fragile sleep—
but dawn returned with her claws.
The marrow of my being betrayed me,
cells multiplying like shadows,
weakening the fortress of my body,
inviting pain to stay forever.
She adored me, grew fonder each day,
hovered at my bedside like a jealous guardian.
No medicine could banish her—
she kept her vigil,
tending me with cruel devotion.
She demanded my love,
urged me to forsake the healers,
to surrender wholly to her embrace.
I refused, and she raged.
She seized my mind,
sat beside me like kin,
watching every breath,
every flicker of thought.
The healers spoke of renewal—
a graft of life from another,
a chance to replace the broken marrow
with the gift of my brother’s blood.
Pain grew furious,
vowing to scorch me first,
to unleash her fury in fire and radiation.
She kept her promise,
and I endured in silence.
But the graft took root.
Slowly, I slipped free of her grasp.
She lingered, unwilling to leave,
yet I had won this time—
and she, at last, was forced to loosen her hold.
