Abandon implies intention, which I must
be honest, is correct in this case: I did
choose not to help you. Wishing I were
dead, or at the very least that I didn't
exist—this depression is both what I felt after
forsaking you, but also what kept me from
giving you that ride to the doctor in the first place.
How to compare us: I am plagued by moods I cannot
indoctrinate into the common sense of sense.
Juror of reality I will never be. But your
kidneys do not flush. Every day, those
lithe salts becoming less nimble, losing
momentum, no longer willowing through
nephrons ever-quieter. We both admit to it:
overwhelmed. By my psychosis seeming to limit
possibility instead of expanding. By your blood's
qualifications no longer sufficient, leaving only
redness and stillness. Move, blood. No, I cannot
say that; that was my job. I fucked up. There is
traffic in your tubules. There is a lonely, panicked
urologist. Each of your glomeruli are wrapped in
velvet. My dendritic garden is overrun with
weeds that trap me in my own nonsense, their ugly
xanthophyll making us miss your dialysis appointment.
You cannot tell me it's ok, but you cannot tell me it's not—
there is no right way to end this.