She died, white foam in her mouth

It took her hours, till she screamed,

-in a whisper let me die.

and they say, I have a right not to know

how mutated my DNA is.

I can hide from written fate.

But then I know anyway.

Two uncles, a grandfather,

Death told me years ago

Id like think that at her bed side,

There lay a cigarette stub, smoking

its dieing memory fading as she passed

Still they say her genes killed her,

that one piece of a word

written in language we dont understand

And now theres a test, a little prick

to tell me if I carry the same fate,

if I too will die, bones to dust

But for my body its useless,

I carry so many words,

Choosing to use only a few,

And whos to say I use the ones she did?