I Never Want to Be as Bitter as My Coffee
  
  Waking up takes longer than it used to, before my body turned on itself.
  Now, my mornings settle in slowly. My bruised bones beg their 
  Indignant cells to process the powdered poison that I feed them. 
  I sit and clutch a mug of black coffee and let it warm my too-smooth
  Knuckles that can never get hot enough -- no matter how burnt and 
  Angry my mouth may be.

  Mornings like these, I feel like my doctor is chief Tyrol and I am 
  Admiral Adama, who has just been informed that his beloved
  Battlestar, Galactica, the last hope for humanity, the embodiment 
  Of his soul, his spirit, his identity, was built by shoddy workmanship
  By men who cut corners, and that she is rotting from the inside out. 

  Quickly, I recognize the absurdity of simile, and acknowledge that it is
  Much Better to have Arthritis at 21 than it is to be Wiped Out by a race 
  Of sentient robots, and I turn my thoughts to the recordings in my hands.

  See, I've never been superstitious or prone to believing in crystal balls or 
  Reading palms, so I was pretty amused when I found out that my hands
  Really do tell stories--but not of the future. No, my hands collect every
  Hard knock, they calcify every bump, cataloging my life more accurately 
  Than my memory could do anyway. And I can't deny a certain poetic appeal 
  In that-- that written into my hands are my stories, the songs of myself, 
  Etched into my very bone:

    A knuckle here that still smells like the wrestling mat, won't let me forget the 
  grimaces and groans that my grip used to carry.
        A     crooked   knob     
                   here that will always remind how to properly clean a bike
  chain without getting bitten. 

  My hands remember what most people's forget, and they're teaching me
  Silver linings-- forming a new outlook before my eyes-- one that I won't regret. 

  Maybe I can't hold a barbell anymore, but I've discovered:
  The perfect peace of cutting through Water, clear and cool, rushing over 
  My shoulders and back, pushing into me as hard as I push into it, teaching 
  Me that, sometimes, I control my own waves.
  A warm pool oasis in the dead of January

  I've learned:
  To listen to my body, and the damn barometer.
  To really taste my beer, because I'm only allowed a little, now.
  To appreciate the miracle of modern medicine and what it does for me. 

  In fact, I'm thinking my grass looks a little greener now that it used to,
  Because life is full of suffering, and as far as suffering goes, this 
  Is not so bad. 
  This medicine may be a burden to my body, my liver, my gut, but 
  This Disease has been a fertilizer to my spirit: just the wake call
  I needed, without being fatal. 
  And I believe that, at the end of the day, really, I'll be grateful.