Hate My Body

A poem written about people leaving you when your chronic illness got too bad.

You are not dead—
Yet I grieve you.
You walk this earth,
breathe the same air,
but the weight of your absence
presses heavier than any coffin.

It is *my body* that built this chasm.
My own skin—
a faulty cage that betrayed me,
a storm that never quiets.
And you—
You could not stay inside it with me.
So you left.
Not gone, but gone enough.

I search for your hand in the dark,
I find only echoes,
hollow air where comfort should be.
Do you know what it is
to be abandoned for an illness
you never chose,
to feel love rot away
not from time, not from death—
but from exhaustion?

I ask myself every night—
Did I break you?
Did I bleed you dry
with my endless needing,
my body’s cruel demands?
Is your silence punishment,
or self-preservation?
And is there even a difference?

I want to scream:
It’s not my fault!
But the guilt eats the words,
leaves me choking
on apologies you’ll never hear.

You live.
I live.
But the “we” of us—
that died the moment
my illness became louder
than your love.