I want people to stop telling me I'm going to die
The white coats hurt my eyes and make them cry

My friend keeps his fountain pen in a napkin
I remember the first time it leaked
The blue stain looked strange on the pristine white
When he washed it the napkin itself became a little more blue
I wonder if the napkin noticed he was turning more blue
Or that he accepted it as their new state of being

Your pen leaked
I tell the doctor as I point to his breast pocket
"Time for a new pen right?" He says
And throws it in the bin
Is it that easy to get rid of it

I asked my friend why he doesn't throw it away
"I'm attached to it"
Attached to the very thing that attacked
The vicious stains stubborn
Why do you not throw it away?
What is the broken pen worth?

I look at the blue brouse on my arm and wonder if there's any ink left
I open my pen and try to draw the smile
I ran out of ink
I think I'm dying