Cancer

This body, the one that I'm in right now, well, that's a funny story.

It's not mine anymore.

Because, you see, it doesn't belong to me (nope, not me, not anymore), but the monster inside of me.

(And come closer, because he doesn't like me talking about him.)

The monster inside of me—oh God—he hurts me. He pulls and pushes and punches and does whatever he likes whenever he pleases. He comes out sometimes, at night, and I never quite remember when my teeth become his fangs and my nails become his claws. He picks and tears me apart and just beneath my skin, I'm stinging and itchitchitching to get it all out, so I scratch until all I can breathe is the red of my own self.

(He doesn't want me telling you this, but he's murdering me. From the inside out.)

And the people, the people dressed in white, they think that they're helping me, but oh god, they're not. They set me on fire, and they think that they're hurting him, that they're killing him and ridding me of him, but they don't know, oh they don't know that they're poisoning me, and he's only growing stronger.

(You see the stitches on my lips? He fought to sew them shut.)

And no matter how I beg, no matter how I hard I cry, no matter how hard my fingers pull at the satin suture scars in my skull, he won't come out, he won't leave. He's stuck inside, and sometimes I wonder if he hates himself inside my head as much as I do. We scramble around in the dark, around and around, and I can't breathe, oh God, I can't breathe, and you don't appreciate being able to breathe until you can't.

(My fingertips, he's burned them right off.)

But I will fight. I promise. And then I will be all that's left. It won't belong to him.

Not his anymore.