They call out their cheery morning greetings, with its usual musical whim, which harshly pierces my eardrums, as I groggily enter the kitchen. The musical notes and smiles do miss me, as my feet clomp the creaks of the tiled, kitchen floor. A quick open of the fridge door, with deep sorrow in my heart, my eyes fixate longingly, on the emptiness of the plastic trays. Though my stomach is growling, begging to be fed, the realisation of the emptiness that I see before me, reflects the same cold, emptiness in my life. Those that I live with, look troublingly at each other, as confusion brews in their minds, expecting the return of morning greetings, and a smiling face beaming back. But upon receiving silence, silence enveloping the stagnant room one single thought, was common in their minds, “How can someone, someone more than forty years my junior, lock herself away from the world, with a long face and a sharp tongue, to almost every, spoken, word.” The truthfulness of my lonely heart answers, before my brain recounted a lie. The words were almost bursting, bursting out of my mouth. The words abruptly standing, standing up, to be heard. So many answers to the question, so many reasons to learn, the question that I am asking though, who's really, willing to hear? The reasons for the walk of death, that I bear alone every day. The emptiness in my heart. The emptiness in my life. I often look around me, for loved ones that will stay by my side, I often look around me, for loved ones, that will hold my hand, but every day, every, single, damn day, I always, come up short. My heart launches pounding. Words begging to escape. And before I could even stop it, Words begin to speak. I try to tell you gently, I try to be attentive, but how can I just tell you, the answers to your burning questions. The reasons that you want, is simply, simply…you. They say you didn’t know what you were doing. They say you didn’t know how bad it was. They say you didn’t know your genotype. Those were different times you see. I say those are just excuses. I say there should’ve been questions. Why didn’t you check? Why weren't you careful? Where was your sense of protection? Where were thoughts of my future? Did any of these questions, bestow upon you, at any given time? How can I ask these questions? How do I dare to speak? How can I just tell you, that I blame you for this life. This disability that plagues me, the suffering that I feel, I look upon you, and dearly wish, that I was never born. In the foetal position screaming, screaming in bone-crushing agony, there’s something deep inside me, which wishes, which wishes, for me to let go. Begging for the undoable Pleading to the spiritual world. Can you do the unthinkable, And do what I want you to do? Will the mother lose her swelling, Of what she treasures most? Will the mother do what’s kinder, Rather than what she yearns for most? I can’t look at you and thank you, thank you for my life. I can’t look at you and thank you, thank you for all that you have done. While others feel really grateful, for the life they have before them, deep in my heart, I know, I am faced with life, I wish, I never had. I’m bound to you. I’m forced on you. I’m never be free. For that, I know I can never, never be grateful. Always pleading: Stop the pain. Stop the fight. Let me meet my maker. The deathly grip, of my sickle blood cells, has one hand, one hand, viciously around my neck. The tightness around my neck, waiting, patiently waiting, for the right time to squeeze, squeeze all the oxygen, straight out of this body of mine. Nerves do get the best of me, as I wait, painfully, I wait, to die.