My illness is invisible, You can’t see it,
But I spy it, lurking, and waiting,
It’s in dark corners, hidden in old memories,
And it watches, it is patient, it is rich,
Full of stolen bounty, fat from the treasures it seeks.
My illness is silent, You don’t hear it,
But it deafens me with it’s hollow laughter,
It taunts, it chides, reminds, and sniggers,
It knows not of rest but of chatter and noise,
Of jibes, of screams, and it hisses it’s warnings.
My illness is painful, but You’ll never feel it,
But I taste the blood it steals from me,
I’m powerless as it stabs, as it bites, and
Leaves me, wounded, broken, damaged,
And returns to it’s lair, silently awaiting.
My illness it’s real, but will you ever believe it?
It’s name is known, but quietly uttered,
In walls of shame, and hushed tones.
And it knows your fear, as it wanders through our worlds
Cutting through us one by one, mercilessly.