twenty-seven. or: about poorly written plot twists, vengeful rage, and noes

no, this cannot be it.
you cannot tell me this cliché with the character who has just found his will to live
now suddenly dying blindsided in battle,
physical wounds winning over the putrid ruminations that didn’t devour him
is my final chapter.
what a poor excuse for a plot twist,
i abhor it,
no.

no.
i’ve come to learn that is a full sentence, and i will make full use of it for all my life.

no,
you cannot tell me that i crawled my way out of the existential dread,
bleeding nails, gnashing teeth, vengeful skin,
just to step out of the bottomless pit that engulfed me for more than half my life,
just to take a few steps into the buttery sunlight,
just to walk barefoot through the emerald blades born from the same soil,
just to open my ears to the mellifluous trills of hope-bringers,
just to catch a glimpse of freedom,
let it simmer on my tear-stained cheeks,
and drop dead from a disease that has now vowed to feast on what is left of my body
no.

no.
i have vowed to make my escape out of this poorly written novel,
tear the pages, set them alight, throw them in the wind,
and write myself as a living, breathing poem,
expanding my lungs at full capacity,
taking what is rightfully mine,
air, and vengeance, and will to live.
how did that first draft even make it to print,
it needed more proofreading,
who authorised that?
no.

no,
you cannot tell me this is my life now,
for however long i have left,
begging to be heard,
begging for a diagnosis,
begging.
i have begged long enough.
no.

no, you cannot tell me for the millionth time
i need to be the bigger person
and let it go.
i beg to differ, how big can i be when i am squashed under their foot every single time
insignificant insect that they see me as,
left to bleed, guts spilling out,
while they preach forgiveness and gratefulness to me.
there must be more to my size.
NO.

no,
you cannot tell me this grief is my life now,
nestling into the crevices of my mind
left unoccupied by the black death that tore at every neuron it could find.
no.

no,
for every reason, including anticipatory grief
at the gradual loss of my body, dignity and autonomy,
no.

no.
you cannot tell that after i disappeared inside myself for all that time
and finally came out of hiding,
i stepped right into the ravenous mouth of a chronic monstrosity,
and received a life sentence.
no.

no,
don’t call me a warrior, survivor,
or whatever synonym you can find for the sterile reality that i am a patient
for
ever.
i refuse to make it part of my identity,
i fancy myself a wistful pessimist learning to savour the little things in life,
inhabiting;
a wannabe spoken-word poet,
an occasional flutist,
a resolute daydreamer,
a pensive twenty-seven-year-old learning to live again,
taking afternoon walks through my peaceful neighbourhood,
“to watch the world spin without you” blasting from my phone,
learning to expand my lungs at full capacity.
i fancy myself this
and not anything else,
no.

no.
no.
no.

and till the end of time,
no.

if the wheels of time huffed and puffed,
and squeaked and screeched,
and wore and tore,
and spit out twenty-seven,

if twenty-seven taught me anything,
it’s
no.