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I took my leave because there’s nothing left to do. I thought I’d be more upset, saying goodbye for the last time and knowing it was finally, truly the last time. She moaned in agony. I patted her shoulder and left. I mumbled “I love you” on the way out.

I thought
I’ll be glad when she’s dead.

The guilty thoughts—wishing my aunt dead, not paying enough attention to her, not caring enough, thinking her a chore—I take them out of context so that I suffer more. So that I’ll suffer longer. Because she’s dead after all and I’m not. I tell myself that I wished her dead, as if I wished her dead in a vacuum. The context is she was dying. The context is she suffered and I wanted it to end. The context is I was selfish, but most people are. The context is my thoughts and reactions were completely understandable for a caregiver over the long haul. Death sucks, you do what you can.

The context is
she had cancer,
motherfucking, no-cure cancer.

The context is
I wished her dead, yes,
but. the thought. did. not. kill. her.

My friend says

it’s perfectly normal

in context


My lip

swelled to the size of Angelina Jolie’s lips on collagen

came close to anaphylactic shock

but for severe allergies

it’s perfectly normal

in context


I can’t concentrate

and I panic often

but for being depressed

it’s perfectly normal

in context


I peak around the corner

to see if she’s in her office

and feel relief when she’s not

but for being paranoid

it’s perfectly normal

in context


And I think

I don’t want to be in context

if I’m perfectly normal

what fun am I?

SOB with me

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