The morning to you is a battleground
as you cradle in your arms
and wear your disease on a rope
like a noose around your neck.
You speak to the world
in a whisper
yet scream at your own reflection,
throwing profanities at a soundless mirror.
You enjoy your blissful rage
and have a name for every one of your
bottling them up
labeling your madness
and counting off those that have loved you
one by one
until you are left, desolate, alone
with the wind in warfare over your barren wounds.