illness is finite

&even after your oblivion

after all those years of sickness

you have risen, a testament to

strengh; a fortress of self-containment

our relationship became one of missed opportunity

where I struggled to regain sanity, or

even had the capacity to cope with my anxiety

at a young age, we were so close to the proximity

of a healthier bond & a love that could have been

unconditional, but I writhed in my sick bed

in the hard days, towards a separation

&pictures on the mantel now taken down

I am ashamed to call myself your family,

as you have a heart of gold I cannot fathom

myself, a lost cause of best intentions,

dusty & poignant on that familial shelf

our relationship for now left on silent

there is something finite about

illness, an erasure of identity

but you always said

&and will say

you are not your depression