Pink Ribbon

She called herself a survivor.
To you, that is what she was,
To her, it didn’t matter that it came back, that
this time it would take her life,
guerrilla warfare occupied every territory of her body
her soul was being forced from a home it knew
for only three decades,
barely settled in before
dressing itself in white covers
within white walls
as if preparing for the only color flag
she could raise.⠀

She called herself a survivor,
knowing something
was growing inside of her that
she could not control,
once hers but has long ago become something
she no longer recognizes,
playing Mother Nature and Father Time,
cheating her of the universe she envisioned
once cradled comfortably in her palms,
space now extinct
leaving only a gravitating grave to ground her.

She called herself a survivor.
That is not what she was,
it is who she is.
She unapologetically stares you down with empty eyes
tired, but resolute,
dares you to defy reality.⠀

Delirium from metastases is written in her charts-
she is having delusions.
But you think of her words,
see the resilience in her eyes when you close your own,
realize you didn’t just walk into a hospital room,
you walked into a waging war you can’t see,
confined within a woman trying to hold
everything together,

Confined within a woman who still
wraps herself in pink ribbon.

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