Stomach pains

Stomach pains.  Slowly tearing me up. 
The shadow memory of my esophagus this summer and the fear of death
curls me into a protective ball on hardwood floor.
You're there today, my little sister, to take care of your pains,
to put you up on bed once more, to diagnose,
when my own pains no longer resonate as clearly,
and I want them to fix you. 
But there is the one whose hand I enclosed in mine,
just outside the hospital doors is the one
whose flowers I smelled, lovely and embarrassing. 
So I am here, arm handcuffed to machine,where you all exist,
contained within. 
As I click,
and you do not react.  Digital faces seem so real,
and I forget that I do not mean anything and I am NOTHING,
my own face flickering into oblivion when the power fails. 
My pain is less now that the words soothed and soothe,
but when I remember, the chills, the clenching chest and stomach,
the tears that refused to emerge,
I wonder. 
To put you in shoe box, tied with ribbon,
or to quench you. 
To drown you. 
Because you say I should remember, and learn from it. 
But I say,
last time,
that almost killed me.