14/31: an accidental poem. an edited email about surgery

Here is exactly why I'm so nervous:
because I might die.
I don't know what that would mean if I did.
Or what if I don't die? but my body throws me in a coma
and instead, I'm stuck between the walls?

I don't have a living will. I should.
I really really should.
I think it would read:
"[He] gets to decide everything. Just let him. Don't fight him.
[They] have every right to dead me and my items and all my love."

So, there you have it.
I'm anxious that I'm going to die.

And that's the long and short of it.