Wilt

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.

 

Emotionally ignorant,

continuing along on our journey,

discounting

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, 

always sick.

We peg it as allergies

given to us by this alluringly rich plant,

but it's more than hypersensitivity.

It's always something more...

 

Weeks later, 

the doctors take their hedge clippers,

exploring our gardens for the most unique greenery to pick

open, exposed, 

helpless.

Stripping us of the thorns embedded in our veins,

pulling out every root and bud they can find

until

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,

awaiting recovery.

 

After being cut into, 

they offer us a drug,

the magical miracle of liquid poison,

flower food;

chemotherapy.

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,

false hope.

 

Waking up every morning,

crying as we gather more and more petals from our pillows

until our heads are as bare as our optimism.

Embarrassed, 

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,

the soil,

the dust.

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.

 

This poem is about: 
My family
Guide that inspired this poem: 

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