I liked you better when you were overweight;
when you didn't wake up at 3 a.m.,
start your car outside my window,
and go to the track for four hours.
I liked you better when you weren't
constantly giving me tips on how to
follow in your nine-percent body fat
footsteps and when you ate more
than just frozen peas and Cheerios,
and when you weren't so grumpy
and introverted and when
you didn't buy clothes from the
young boys department at J.C. Penney.
I liked you better when your teeth
weren't falling out and people
didn't ask if you have cancer
and before you shaved your head,

but now you're growing your hair back

so I guess that's a good sign, maybe.
I liked you better when you didn't resent
my mother; all she's trying to do is help
you. All we're trying to do is save you.
I liked you better when I could hug you,
and actually feel you,
rather than the nothing that's so
rudely taken your place.
I liked you better when you smiled,
when you had a shine in your eyes,
rather than the ghost of your father
who was killed by the poison
you're desperately trying to avoid.
I liked you better when you weren't
willing to sacrifice everything you love.
I liked you better when you
didn't make coming home so hard.
I liked you better when you weren't
willingly killing yourself
with a disease I struggled
to overcome.
I liked you better when you were alive.