Not Yet Death Poem by Theodore Andrews

Dear Death,

Do not come to me gentle.
Do not whisper like I've been waiting.
I know you've been watching
counting the days I wake up already pissed off at being alive.

Yes, I am miserable.
Yes I hate what the mirror throws back at me.
I am broke in ways my CV cannot explain.
I am tired of being the problem I can't seem to fix.

Some days I do not want this life.
But don't you dare confuse that
with wanting you.

I will NOT vanish quietly.
I will NOT leave my wife holding questions like broken glass,
or my boys wondering what they did wrong
that made their dad disappear.
My pain will NOT become their inheritance!

You do not get to clean up your mess
with my family's grief.
I am still here out of spite if nothing else.
Still breathing because love is heavier
than all this shame you think you can use against me.
You think I don't notice the way you linger
when the house goes quiet?
You think exhaustion is an invitation?

No.

If you want me, you'll have to earn it.
You'll have to drag me
kicking and fucking screaming
away from the people that I love.
And I promise you this:
I will make it ugly.
I will fight you with everything I have left—
with rage,
with loyalty,
With love,
with the simple, stubborn refusal
to let my story end like this.

I may be limping.
I may be lost.
But I am not done.
So back the fuck up
And wait your damn turn.

I'm staying right here

You do not get me yet....