Cancer
by Sasha Marine
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It is my skin
but not my form.
It has its own agenda.
I look at it and hate it
yet it is a part of me.
A mutated and diseased
remnant of regret.
I would cut it off
if the pain weren't there.
Is this a final warning
that carelessness has a price?
I think it is a reoccurring sorrow
to brand me where few can tell.
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