The Glass Isn't Half Empty Or Half Full; It's Broken. Poem by Riley Choma

Breathing as this point is like being on life support.
I was dead last week, last month, and last year.
To breath doesn't mean to live, sometimes it's just prolonging.
It's letting people pick you apart and replace parts of you with new ones that you didn't want in the first place.
It's sharp pains from all the tests but being too weak to go without them.
Its breathing glass in an effort to appear okay: okay enough.
But you are what you eat.
Eventually, you become see through and even- possibly totally broken.
And although broken things can be put back together…
That glass will never be what it once was.
Sometimes the glass isn't half empty or half full; it's broken.