My sickness, my precious, has a name
and it is eternal.
I'm not just coping,
(chronic masterpieces)
I'm rewriting endurance,
a torture for the history books.
I am not my father's son.
I am made of meat and bone
and undisclosed distractions
and controversial procedures
I embellish the tradition,
like a martyr with a flesh wound.
My parents gave me this name
in a fit of carefully-executed hysterics,
shaping the child into a star.
My sickness, my vicious, has a name
and it is forever.