October 1, 2016
I lost the use of my left leg
But my left leg was not a way to tell time
It was just a way to tell that time had passed
Like my left arm was not the end of an era,
But rather it was just a way to preserve the memories
Like bitter sweet jam your grandmother made
Spilled blood
And ink
Spilled blood
Is my ink
In which I write my tragedies
Dear person-who-wrote-my-life
Dear John Green
I sat planted in my bed for five months
Like a bird with clipped wings
But I am not the fault in you stars
Don't tread on me
I am not just your next tragedy