Dying Young


She took a wig and hair extensions
And covered her patchy scalp
She looked ravishing in a red maxi-dress
She was the cynosure of the night
A woman who could pull any man
With the mere magnetism of her allure
She armed herself with mascara
And a little gloss of lipstick.
She was simply dressed to kill.

15 minutes later she heard a knock at the door
A doctor walked in and complimented her
On her attire and how beautiful her
Visage was, in stark contrast to the woman
He saw under a fluorescent light a few days back.

And she rested her tresses on a pillow
As the doctor slowly pushed a needle
Inside a vein and pushed a little chemical concoction
Through a needle opening. She smiled a little
A half-smile that eroded with time
As she slowly surrendered her pulse
To God’s hands, until there was no
Heartbeat or the noise of a dragged out inhale.

She blacked out on her own terms
And not to a parasitic growth inside her
She looked peaceful in bed
A woman who pushed fear out of her system
And embraced the inevitable. A life 35 years
In the making, truncated by a similar span.

And you could say she had her last dance
While a chemical drained through
Her circulation, until she forgot how
To inhale. And as stiffness and a cold streak
Took over her body, the soul exhaled
To a faraway land, never to be felt again.

Cancer was her life sentence.
A needle became her ultimate parole.
Death was her amnesty
From the stranglehold of algesia.

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