(Waterloo, ON, Canada)
I miss my brother's face, his habits,
His silly jokes, his presence.
Like a lion's roar I release and purge,
The evil sickness of death
That has cursed my mind and body,
As though burrowing in the depths,
Of my stomach and my being,
Only to come out after a long accumulation
Of time, controlled temperament and transient thoughts.
The feeling is both saddening, yet healing,
Painful yet satisfying-- like violently vomiting,
But not minding, with the knowledge that good health will soon return (at least temporarily).
It is both welcomed and loathed.
I feel like I have so much control over it,
Yet it always manages to defeat me.
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