Sick of You

Title explains it all.

I think of you in IV drips,
and pills too fucking big to swallow.
I think of you in rapid breaths
too shallow to keep the panic from
completely consuming me.
And it's in those moments,
I swear I feel you in my lungs.
You're that crackle when I inhale,
and the wheeze when I breathe out.
You're the rattle in my chest, cough
until I crack a rib, feverish and
naked on the cold tile, choking
on my foamy bile,
- the pneumonia of my mind.
And I'd rather die than live with you.
But I do think of you sometimes.