Me: *lying in bed at 11am, a complete mess, crying, angry and bewildered*
Mr. W: (via phone) I wish you wouldn’t have done anything when I wasn’t there.
Me: What, I’m supposed to have done this while you were here?
Mr. W: At least I could’ve helped you through it.

That means the world to me.

I have tentative lunch plans today with my godbrother. He didn’t pick up his cell. Godbro, hello? I need you! I’m still torn on what to do today.

Touch a cold door
What’s behind is more
Of the same chill
Abyss where no will
Can add substance
Apply resistance
You’ll see
What’s done to me
No heart nor soul
No well-intentioned pull
Can alter
The cancer
With its tentacled reach
It’s death in life
It bleeds hope dry
It violates like a whore
I touched the cold door.

There’s my impromptu little ditty. Strange, it reads more like a rap than anything else. That’s the way it plays in my head, anyway. Strangely, Missy Elliot’s voice is reciting it in my head.