Upset. You're upset. Yeah, you can't meet my eye. Yeah, I was unforgiveably rude. Yeah, I laughed at your t-shirt. Yeah, I don't fuck you as much as you want.
But I'm the one. I'm the one who will drain your surgical collection bag. I'm the one destined for hospital smells, for the terror, for the end. For the rattle.
You get to stay mad, because you are dying. What do I get, left behind?