Cancer is calling
To tell me that it’s my turn
Like having this illness is a toy to be shared
To swap stories and bond like it’s a campfire
And the marshmallows being toasted are my lymph nodes
The technician that I don’t know is getting the first glance into my body
Will she see death? Will her heart sink as she carries the burden of my cancer home with her?
Will my cancer eat at her dinner table tonight?
An unwelcomed guest. A distraction. Will my cancer rob her of her appetite and wrap around her body in place of her house robe ?
Will my cancer be the third wheel in her bed tonight and greet her in the morning?
Oh cancer, you beast. You killer of dreams and devourer of futures. Ive waited by my phone for your call because I knew you always would. And just like clockwork, your name appears on my screen. I am not surprised but I do think you’re a little early. Is it mercy you’re showing me? What’s your angle here? Let’s talk because one day, you will stop calling me. You will stop taunting me and I will fear you no more.

Is anyone okay?
Remember when life was simple?
Shane Dawson on YouTube
Instagram was a place for photos of food
Pinterest was full of fall photos and diys
The world somehow felt safer
Why’d it change so fast?
Before we became the world’s adults
It was all so close to our fingertips
And somehow it all slipped away
Is anyone okay?

With an attitude and a pose that drips with defiance
Lupus is the middle school sister of Cancer
Still undeveloped, she folds her arms and rolls her eyes
she scoffs at rules and bullies her classmates
she bears her midriff and decorates herself in the pain of her host
She is not dangerous but a full on threat
She doesn't look up to either of her parents, Life and Death
but lovingly admires her elder sister Cancer
Cancer is dark and gloomy, she is unpredictable and unkind
She laughs at Life and stares knowingly at death
She has decorated herself in the pain of her host, bathes in the tears
of humanity and is tattooed with the certainty of uncertainty
She is beauty and curiosity like her mother, Life
and tragedy and heartbreak like her Father, Death
Oh how, she makes her family dance as she composes her own symphony
She and lupus sway in the genre of Fear
And I am swaying with them

I stress in the silence immediately following the sharing of my great thoughts
When I draw from my collections of truth, interests and opinions
and my conversation-mate grows untrusting, uninterested and argumentative
I suddenly feel frustrated, disconnected and invalidated
It's in the silence that I'm aware of how lonely conversation can feel
Will this lead to heartbreak? Is there a way to protect my heart from what has not happened, may not happen and is just a trigger?

Uncertainty is an open door
Anxiety is the pictures on the hallway
Fear is the exit down the corridor
and courage is the hand that guides me through the entrance

its not that you don't deserve all of the things that your heart desires
its not that I don't hear the deep longings of your soul
how you wish to frolic through the forest and touch the dampness of autumn
no, my dear, quite the contrary
you are most deserving of all of the deliciousness of life
coziness and comfort shall wrap themselves around your gentle frame
you are deserving of bowls being served into your hands
and loving eyes pouring in your direction
you deserve the sunsets and to greet the friendly darkness
you deserve light, and colors and to have your senses mesmerized
yes, my dear you are so deserving
and it is now safe to indulge

Was there ever a day when childhood could bloom?
Overalls, converse and a dewy abandoned lot
I wished to be a free child, wild and with whimsy
The sun just below the horizon
the friendliness of darkness pouring in gently
hair that's escaped the braids that couldn't contain it
and the brownness of the earth on my palms
I dreamt of this childhood as I sat mercilessly through church
Contained, silenced and controlled
There was no childhood for me
No freedom, space or whimsy
I never greeted the evening or the friendly dark
and my hair was always bound by rubber bands and barretts
the palms of my hands carried no traces of brown except that of my own skin
And church was simply a prison and my soul began its longing
for the day when childhood could bloom