Twenty-twenty three,

Will you stop following me?

The year is done,

Yet I am still the one

You choose to pester,

Sending wounds that fester.

Suffering must go.

Because it’s 2024 today, you know?

I’m done with:

Split gowns

Paper bracelets wrapped round,

Cotton balls, gauze, and bruises,

Hollow tubes, needles, and infusions,

Surgeries, scars,

Restless nights with jars

Of medicine to swallow

Lying on flat pillows.

So, go away, 2023.

Release me.

It’s 2024.

I think she’ll like me more.