It left a physical scar - a quarter inch thick and two inch long slice on the front of my throat. It sits there, a bump in what was the once uninterrupted expanse of smooth skin. The redness an obvious and unavoidable contrast to the paleness that surrounds it. A reminder of what was - of weakness, illness, the minor but distinct threat of death, the reminder of a strength I didn’t know I had until I had no other choice but to muster it up.

But it’s the emotional scar that bothers me more. They took the ***** out but the rage stayed. Its burrowed its way into the spot that hunk of human tissue used to call home and its only grown since -
moving in,
unpacking all of its things,
painting the walls,
adopting the frustrating habit of always being late on its rent.
Morphing me into someone that I don’t entirely understand anymore.
Someone so stupid and reckless that I don’t care if it ends up killing me.

Sometimes I think the cancer never really left.
That I just took its place
An understudy that plays the same role,
maybe just not as well as the lead can,
but well enough that its hard to remember
that the lead was replaced to begin with.