It begins as crabs' pincers
Clipping the tendrils of rotting neurons
As they try to free their legs.
Each pinch erases a memory
Of someone good,
Until all you are left with is a rage
That leaves you unspeakable
And renders human discourse
As the howling of death birds.
So is it cancer, or just narcissism?
I'd prayed for the former:
When my mouth opens,
Claws pour out.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem