I hate that you never got to see me better.

It must’ve broken your heart,
every time we met,
to see your boy—thin, pale, and unwell—
only to watch him, later, make himself sick
on his own terms, by his own hands.

You watched me come through one sickness,
only to see me spiral into another,
and with every visit, you saw it—the slow decay,
the fight fading from my eyes
that once held so much life.

You’d look at me, I know, hoping,
that maybe this time I’d be different,
that I’d find my strength
and remember who I was.

But I wasn’t there.
I was fighting the dark that had crept inside me,
battling battles I didn’t know how to fight.
I’d won once against sickness,
but this time I was losing to myself.

I hate that you never got to see me better,
not before you had to leave.
I hate that you never saw your boy come back,
whole and proud, the way you wished.

Now I carry you with me,
a shadow and a guide,
through every misstep, every slip, every moment I get up.

And I hate that you still can’t see me better.
But I’m working on it, for you.
That boy is trying, Dad, he’s trying to fight,
to be someone you’d recognize again—
not just the boy who fought once,
but the one who keeps fighting,
who doesn’t give up.

For you.