Between My Give-Up Spirit and I
by Dai Akaboshi (Hironori Matsumoto)
Her branchy hair spreads on the pillow,
The night’s still young, yet her eyes sealed heavily.
The oxygen mask makes this room seem like such a big deal.
Please heal, I think. But I, honestly, don’t know shi—
my mind zigzagging cons and pros, scissor-cutting positive and negative
thoughts endlessly, sitting on the hard chair in her room, my fingers crossed
behind my mind, worried, anxiety waving in my bubble
No solution coming from my what-if tendencies—so rubble.
The emergency lights, on and off, how many times?
No more, I hope. She’s had enough shit, surgeries, scars, stitches,
checkups, meds, bullshit-talks, etc.
In her room, I have seen her dead so many times,
not wanting the picture in my head, shaking her bed.
Tears and anger profusely splash like a big healthy whale
Or like the active volcano, biting my dry lips, my eyelids,
tennis ball size, pumped intensely, black wounds under my eyes,
cheeks tell a story of how much weight I’ve lost
as well as the struggle, since she came here to fight with the body-crime by nature.
So painful to watch her sleep.
So painful to watch her eat.
So painful to watch her go to the operating theater.
A tiny weak part of me wishes that I could escape but hope to move forward, then, perhaps
I have to stop counting how many days it has been, trashing the calendar.
Everything is beyond my head, and I can’t still go to bed even after 3 days of
sleeplessness, nights and days, God, I could use a painkiller, now.
She has been befriended and witched by a cancer
from her stomach, started off very small. Discovered much later,
she was in danger. 50-50, the doctor said.
2 months passed, I still haven’t been able to hold her body and soul
in a healthy and happy way but watch, wait, think, breathe, and live
until she gains her strength, and a big smile arrives
on her face again.