• You are lying in the bed, breaking down.
    I am sitting on the bed, breaking down.
    We are breaking down.

    The tablets lie in your lap,
    in the crease in the blanket
    in the lake between the hills
    between your legs.

    Tonight, there are more.
    The orange tubes are empty
    and the bottles cry out for their insides.
    This has never happened before.
    “It’s too many! Too many!” I hear them cry.
    I see them lie motionless in the medicine bag.
    They have given up.

    I don’t know what’s on the set.
    It’s some comedian, rambling on about something pleasant.
    Meanwhile, in the real world, there is pain.
    There are tears, there is snot dripping from noses,
    and there are memories.

    We’ve been here for so long.
    This room, it’s watched over us,
    holding strong for us.
    You’ve combed out my hair;
    we’ve eaten dinner on towels
    so we didn’t get the bed dirty.
    We’ve opened presents,
    we’ve sang songs,
    we’ve slept and we’ve hugged.
    And everything was alright.

    You’ve kept it that way.
    Through divorce,
    through abuse,
    through bankrupty,
    through death.
    We’ve stayed strong.

    But now,
    is this truly the straw?
    Will your back break?
    You’ve got a 50 percent chance, still!
    You haven’t finished your treatment.
    Don’t do this! Don’t falter! Don’t leave me here alone!

    But you do.
    The pills from the orange empty homes
    in the crease in the blanket
    in the lake between the hills
    between your legs
    go on a crazy carnival ride
    and they’re gone forever.

    The big white truck will come in the morning,
    and I will mourn with the room
    for it will be just as sad as I;
    and we will cry together,
    and I will not stand strong any longer.
    I will not survive.
    You were my everything.