Rather

Sometimes, I rather wish you died on the table,
That you and I had not been survivors.
You, the cancer statistic,
Me, the product of my childhood.
Then, we wouldn’t be a moral and a fable.

Yet, you continued to defy logic.
A defiant dervish, sallying and rallying,
Whirling, through the horde expectant.
Cockroaches deserve more praise.