Beauty and death go hand in hand,
like flowers and cancer
Amaryllis, Melanoma, and Roses
Cholangiocarcinoma, Chrysanthemums and Leukemia
weaving their vulnerability together
constructing the future carnage of two delicate species.
It starts with a sign
as little as green poking through the sidewalk cracks
or a even a tiny misshapen mole
Like floating irritants in the air.
a lump, a bump
a pain so deep within.
continuing along on our journey,
until we stumble and fall over something
that was once so small.
What was easily plucked from the ground
has now become a magnificent blossom,
an unavoidable patch of hues invoking a detour,
leaving us unable to cross the street or to get out of bed.
Diagnosed with complication,
breathing becomes nearly impossible.
Our lungs fill with pollen,
We peg it as allergies
given to us by this alluringly rich plant,
but it's more than hypersensitivity.
It's always something more...
the doctors take their hedge clippers,
exploring our gardens for the most unique greenery to pick
Stripping us of the thorns embedded in our veins,
pulling out every root and bud they can find
we are left with bouquets of Irises,
to place in a shiny, gleaming crystal vase,
to advertise our bodies’ creation
as we lie, surrendered of growths,
After being cut into,
they offer us a drug,
the magical miracle of liquid poison,
Keeps us alive,
keeps us healthy
after we have already perished inside.
If that doesn't work,
we are put under black light,
shriveled up by luminous bulbs,
tumors soaking up everything,
trying to survive on the radiation of false light,
Waking up every morning,
crying as we gather more and more petals from our pillows
until our heads are as bare as our optimism.
becoming cold, gauntly stigma.
They feed us faith,
drive our families and friends to lend support, but
our illness absorbs it and turns it into hate.
Destruction takes over our bodies,
seeds bury deeper,
tearing us apart
like we have torn them from their homes,
showcasing their elegance as they exhibit our hideous decomposition.
We wither away,
the only thing left a depressed and dissolved stem of what used to be something alluring.
Full of life, love, joy.
Transferred from a vase
to a wooden box
to be presented before the world,
buried beneath the surface.
With flowers placed upon our graves,
our cancerous bodies diffuse in our caskets,
becoming part of the earth,
And once again,
the little green leaf will sprout,
a mole will be found,
our grace will be robbed,
and the cycle of meticulous massacre will begin again.