We Have Enough Dead Friends; a Poem Response

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I feel helpless. You know this.

My arms can barely hold themselves.

My breathing feels so shallow.

I've explained this to you.

I notice how your eyes dim,

how your face grims.

You tell me to come over,

even when your flat's a mess.

You feed me,

more than I've fed myself.

It's delicious —

so delicious, I could cry.

You tell me it's frozen.

My ears fall flat.

Stop your nonsense.

The important thing is that we will both eat.

I was never dying.

My thoughts were the only thing killing me,

quick and difficult.

Everything is hard —

too hard for me.

I can't sleep properly,

I can't eat properly,

I can barely move.

I'm so tired.

Somehow, I manage —

somehow my will is still there.

Even if this isn't that bad at all,

you always told me to call.

You buy me groceries.

You mop my floor.

You hold me when the world is at its cruelest.

I've begged and begged to be alone,

but please,

I'm far from dying.

Your warmth is just a reminder of my mother's —

a reminder of how far I've yet to move.

So please, I've begged to be alone,

but don't leave;

I'll improve.

I found you on the bathroom floor,

helpless.

I know it's hard to breathe,

I know it's hard to eat.

I found you drowning in your sorrows,

forcing yourself to find land

when your friends needed solace.

I know living is heavy.

I know it's hard, so I'll come over.

We have enough dead friends.