I spent so long so utterly convinced that I might not live
that I might die at fourteen, might not have to try
and still I cling to thoughts that if it’s all a bit too much
I don’t have to stick around, I could still die
but the longer I live, the more I learn, the more I see
I realise after all that there is so much left
rocks unturned, books unread, cities unseen
and I at my desk, I on the beach, is far more
than I could ever have hoped for when I was younger
with a liver that betrayed me, with a head full of escapes
I am still alive. I mightn’t always want to be, but I’ve
a life now, a seaside town, and a sweet pseudo-family
even one or two who couldn’t quite live without me


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