It’s the only one attached to me.  I am the only one attached to it.  One lonely hair growing weaker with the days and holding on for its life.  One who can’t seem to get stronger but is trying.  One visitor coming and going after the next.  From my hospital room, I can hear my parents crying, they understand I’m not ok. 
My strength is the secret.  Doctors examine me with their cold bare hands.  I feel better and feel worse and when I feel the hands of another pulling me into an unknown world, I hold on with the strength I have to live another day.  This is how I remain.
Let another topple off, my head sheds like a dog shedding on the first warm day after winter.  Stop, stop, stop I say as another strand falls.  One left.
When I am too weak and too sick to keep keeping, when I am up against the world, then it is I look in the mirror.  When there is nothing left, but a strand of hair on my almost bald head.  One whose courage never seemed to fade.  One who kept getting weaker and weaker.  One who could no longer stay and fight.