It is the thing in my lips, in my flesh, and the crackling chords of snapping tendons.
It's a buzzard, circling, waiting for that tumor in my lips to grow.
For imbalanced cells to spread, to rise, to kill from within.
Poison in my body, bugs in my room.
I bat down the fly, and it crumples pathetically.
It is just living and scared and small, just like me.
But it is pathetic nonetheless.
If this cancer spreads, I will crumple just like that.
Shrink away from the pain, rather than standing to fight.
I can feel it growing, feeding on my desperate cells slowly.
I tell the bugs swarming my floor that they are early for the funeral.
My room is not yet theirs to take.
They don't mind waiting, and I don't mind the company.
