I am
not yours,
though you are
still living
inside me.
Hiding.
Like grief.
There is no
healing
from grief.
It’s not
a gunshot wound,
leaving behind
tell-tale scars.
It’s not
a cancer,
though I have
been carrying you
around long enough.
No doctor
can cut it
out of me.
No knife
can find it,
though one day
you will consume
me. You are
consuming me.
Because
like all good cancers
you simply confirm
what is worst
in me and
how poor
I am
in making
choices.