Poem "stop asking, for you won't like the answer "

No, I am not fine

I might look alive, I might move and talk
like usual
for it doesn't show on the outside

but the bony hand of Death is still firmly clasped around my wrist
lightly tugging, tugging, tugging
every day reminding me
that I have not yet escaped
nor will I ever

for bruises formed by the hand of Death
are internal
and everlasting