I've not held a pen in many months,
for fear of seeing your face
in the belly of my words.
I know how thick
the effect of you is,
how you pervade every work of mine
with a foul, haughty stench;
you always told me
I'd be the one to never forget you.
And how could I,
when you've made me so weak?
My mind is your residence,
and you've proclaimed it your own;
hovering over each stanza
with involuntary tremors
and disheartening convulsions,
begging me to notice you,
begging me to come inside.
But with every turn of phrase
I'm reminded of your nature
one that's malignant,
unyielding—
for you are just as much my muse
as you are
my cancer.