I've been pondering writing something like this as a prose piece, but there's no reason it can't work as a poem. It is, sadly, the true story of my life, and how my losses are so small.

Why Me?

The question I never asked,
when diagnosed Type 1
when the vending machine arrived
hooking me on the sweet stuff.

As one eye's loss
killed my perception of depth,
depositing me on my arse
looking back at sidewalk kerbs.

When the right eye followed suit
and kidney failure ensued,
and immunosupressant drugs
let brain lymphoma in.

Why me did not apply,
until lymphoma finished off Emily at age 19,
leukemia my classmate, Chris, age 14
when I finally asked, “Why me?”

Why the fuck am I still here,
why are they not?
my trials essentially self-inflicted
theirs most certainly not.

I made cancer look
like beating it was a stroll in the park,
I would have given anything,
to be in their place.