For better or for worse

I worry about ending up alone
In an empty white house with a freezer full of meals for one and a fridge full of beer. And a phone that doesn’t ring because my children resent me, or because I’ve had no children and my womanhood meant nothing because I never reproduced. I end up a barren, wrinkled shell, wondering if the next cigarette will give me cancer or if I’ve already got cancer and my throat’s dissolving and my lungs are collapsing in an empty white house and the beer’s expired and my skin’s gone gray and collects in folds at my waistline and my ankles and the phone never rings like a taunting piece of furniture and I close my sticky eyes and sip flat beer. Alone. The dog’s died and the neighbors don’t care and there’s no more work to be done.
And I wonder if ending up with you
Would be worse than that.