Yes, so I'm told.
a new job, you loved the idea
Yes.
you must be excited, right
Sure.

You see I meet every new change with a sense of
Just complete, utter
Dread.

It fills me.

It by it's own existence,
Allows me to see all I might not like in 3 weeks,
When the new has worn off.
And all within 3 days.

You'll know it's a good fit when the dread files off
But only after a few days.

It's my system.
It has literally never failed.

I look down at my chest,
And breathe.
And breathe.

I swallow,
Relief tingling my nerves for a second at "negative"
Second tumour in less than 4 years.

It grew so much more quickly than the first,
And I breathe.
One day, just one lucky day, I know you'll **** me.

You're uncontrollable now.
Growing whatever you'd like,
So deeply and thickly, they can't see
But I feel the aches and pain
And I just know in my heart,
One day you'll **** me.

If I were smart,
I'd chop you both off in an instant
A double mastectomy from sheer forethought.

But insurance doesn't cover foresight nor seer abilities.
So I blink and cry and sigh
Each time I am prodded and poked and dissected

Every few years, a larger and faster growing tumour
It's gotten smarter.
It's learning, I think.
It grows larger faster, noncancerous so far.
How long do I have,?-is what I'd like to ask my chest.

One day you'll **** me.
I'll miss one important new lump
And it'll grow even more quickly than it's brothers
And I'll suffer.
It'll be too late for medical attention.
I just know it.

One day...you will **** me.
I'm just wondering when.

You see I lost my faith in God
When he allowed a ****** to be forcefully deflowered.

Something I'd been taught was so important to him
Of course it's a him. Why else would my crotch matter?

And yet when I had already forsaken an absentee God
I had a tumour, one new enough and large enough
That I needed more than surgery

Xray over mammogram over biopsy,-chemo lingered a Threat.

My mother held my hand and I could see it in her eyes
She was trying to contain the thought that I'd be dead
Before the new year, with the size of my tumour.

I did not feel at the time. I'd seen her face the second visit and I hardened.
Death nor chemo nor invasive surgery,
Nothing could have scared me more.
Nothing more than that look on my mother's face.

Like I was already slipping through her fingers and she couldn't-she tried to grab me, just to drag me back to her arms
But she was too scared the disease was faster than her.

She nearly tried to fight the tumour herself,
And I imagined she most definitely would if she could,
She'd gone full protective, even snarling at her own mother
Especially when she mentioned my low chances should it be bad.
My mum nearly bared teeth.
She was always a fighter, through and through.
She may have seen a world without me for s second
But she refused it.

I suddenly had a new diet,
A new exercise regime,
And a ridiculous amount of vitamins.
If I had a radioactive spider bite. I'd probably be stronger than thanos at that point.

I thrived, I was safe. She cried so very hard and to this day she checks in everyday like I might slip out of her grasp again.

I can't blame her, so I reply everyday I keep my appointments,
My xrays
My biopsys.
I'm so young for this
But no one was ever too young to die.

The term "*** worker" holds the same definition as
The term "worker" to me.

A supply met a demand,
And yet as she blushed in humiliation
When I stepped out to toss trash,

She was embarrassed holding a laundry hamper
Despite the fact that I came out bearing
A Mickey mouse shirt too large, swallowing up my shorts, and a rattling bud light box.

I merely smiled and bowed my head in greeting,
While she seemed to defeat reason in her explanations.
She could have just said laundry-the most literal thing.

Instead she floundered nervously but my face seems to have that effect.
So I shrugged.
She floundered further.
I blinked and nodded again with a smile and turned for the stairs.

All the while I pondered,
Why not just say it when all her clients walked by me
Every day.

Did you know?
Probably not, right?
I never really gave you notice of it.

Never felt the need to.
Until now, anyways.

I'm rather familiar with guns,
Adept at clearing and cleaning them especially.

That's all I allow to appear
These days

How idiortic would it be to know the maintenance of a weapon
And not to know how to disarm one of it.
Honestly.

I do not prefer gunpowder and a hammer for a reason,
You *****

It is not that I am inexperienced, unfortunately.
though I wish I were

But one can only take so much ot a weapon pointed to their temple
Before they react,
And I am skilled at reacting.

Your hand comes too quickly and you find it's suddenly Twisted behind your back.
Courtesy of me.

A weapon appears, and my body jerks forwards like
A tale as old as time,
I knock it down from one's hand either nicely
Or by force.

I won't care either way,
Long as the deed is done.

I refuse to be so weak again,
I won't.

What if I told you,
There's  a third option?
That there's more than fight or flight?

Heck, I didn't know either!
Still haven't consciously experienced it!

Instead he did.
He discovered that I picked a whole third option
One night.

I have nightmares, but ironically,
Even my sleeping self is good at pretending it's fine.
She rests in odd angles, dangling off the bed, or rather
She takes up as much as she can and
Denys it to any other.

You see this third option appears
When and only when
One attempts to disturb that absurd nightmarish
But sleeping dragon from her rest.

She tends to then act out, purely instinctively,

Clawing
Choking
Crying

She has picked the third option
It means she cannot run because she is sleeping
Which, I guess she knows and understands.

But apparently she can fight regardless of
Her comatose self.

And she will.
To the either the death or you desist in poking the
Sleeping dragon.

She will apparently continue to rest soundly,
Sometimes in incredibly odd positions and
Awkward angles.
But she is quiet, she keeps to herself and guards her territory,
Unconsciously.