that love will take you by surprise

but they are wrong.

you took me by surprise,

or you would have if not for

the fact that you knew

not to rush it

to take our time

and it forced us to evolve

bit by bit together

so no, you did not

surprise me

because I have seen you

from the start

and you have known me

slowly, and deeply

and to know that

i love you

is no surprise to me -

none at all.

because you made sure

from the start

that there would be

no surprises.

and that is

the best part of all.

if I told you that I had the flu

you'd tell me to go home.

but why is it

when I tell you I am flaring

with my illnesses

you neither see nor understand

you see fit

to decide

whether my suffering

is worthy enough

to be acknowledged

by way of judgement,

and doubt,

and choruses of

"you dont look sick" ?

why do you have empathy

when injury and illness

are acute

and not

when they are permanent?

just because

we handle it daily

that

does not mean

it

hurts

any

less.

one time

i was walking

and i saw it

sitting there on the sidewalk

as if it belonged

and I couldn't quite believe my eyes

there it was, in front of me.

grey wings, black spots

red body, blue underneath

invasive species

that did not exist in this place

not according to the state

and I did what I knew I needed to

raised my foot

brought it down

bracing for the crunch

and it jumped, so

I had to try again -

success. the moth was no more.

and I kept walking

like a fool, almost proud

to have seen my first one

and sad to have had to kill it

because it'd been so beautiful.

then I looked up from my feet

and saw a dozen more

crawling on brick pillars

and concrete of the sidewalk

taking over the veranda

and I could not kill them all

because of what people might think

so I casually stomped two or four

more that were unlucky enough

to be within my reach of walking

stride. and pulled out my phone

to document the numbers for

the record to report the lanternflies,

the invasion, to the state

how could I have called them pretty?

now I saw through the façade.

they didn't belong here.

much like me, they would

wreak havok in environments

not their own, blow

through trees and disrupt cycles

of feeding, bring disease -

altogether, spell disaster.

they would become a plague.

they had to be controlled.

they could not simply stay.

they needed to go home.

like me, I realized.

I'd thought I this *was* my home.

but there's nothing here for me to find;

just death beneath a sole.

if only you hadn't left your drink

sitting there on the balcony

in hot, carolina heat

sweating, swirling with the pulp,

beads of perspiration

counting the seconds

like a clock -

then maybe

when you lost it

and your temper finally snapped

and your hand slipped and

the knife thudded to the deck,

the drops of blood

wouldn't have dripped

dripped

dripped

right into the glass

with the striped paper straw

and the long-melted ice

and I would not have looked down

and seen my own life

blossom and bloom in the glass

and I would not have

any reason to hate

pink lemonade

or any lemonade,

the way that I do now.

"so why does your doctor think you have cancer?"

news to me, but I answered the lab technician anyway. it's not real - can't be. I won't research. who, me? me, pull up Jstor and my alumni library database to pull the latest research? me, print it out at the public library, paperclip each one together, and label it with a blue sticky note with 'neuroendocrine/carcinoid tumors' in Sharpie to add to the piles of research that I have *not* done to figure out What Is Wrong With Me, because no one else cares to? Never.

I already read them all. I read them twice each. probably more. I've sat on them for days, all three. I ignore the symptoms part. can't go down that rabbit hole - I'm looking for something else. I want facts. I want statistics.

How long do they take to grow? (9 years). How long do people live if you catch them early enough? (perfectly fine long lives). How often are they caught early enough? (Not nearly as often as they should be). What are the odds of development in the pelvis, not the abdomen?

too slim, according to my specialist, to be worth another scan. she originally ordered me a Full-Body PET. My insurance denied it. It was amended to a triple phase abdominal CT (contrast). Now, my flare is easing up. I look "better." I sound "better." there is no need to push insurance for that scan, now. its so rare, anyway.

That word builds a whole world in my head, though. its latched onto me, to the depths of my soul, and not in the special-snowflake-syndrome pleasant way, but in the severely unpleasant one which makes you wish you had been born as anyone else. "Rare." carcinoid tumors in the pelvis are rare.

it's rare. okay, like POTS? like Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome? or rare like Mast Cell Activate Syndrome? like red hair, or amoxicillin allergies, and ambidexterity, and perfect pitch? rare like the worst case of domestic abuse & violence seen in the state of New York in someone's four decade career? rare like losing three friends before we were even 18?

tell me, Doctor, because I have been extremely unlucky in my life. do you mean to say that the odds are so low - that it is rare like all of that? because if so, given my track record, it seems like this is a risk I cannot take.

so I leave the appointment and drop the façade and sleep for the next three hours, because that's what clinic does to you - wipes you out. and I spend my day nauseous, hoping not to throw up, aware of the fact that yes, I have the weight back, and yes, I feel pretty good lately if we're gonna compare, but it isn't going to last. I know this cycle. I know what comes next. soon everything will change and nothing I eat will digest properly. I'll lose 20 pounds in two weeks, and it won't be a good thing, and I will once again feel like I am dying. on the third week, just as quickly, it'll stop. the weight will come back in two to three more. I'll be "stable" for maybe a month, if I'm lucky. any longer is rare.

rare, like neuroendocrine tumors in the pelvis - apparently not worth assessing for.

words have fled my tongue

because while I have been home,

ostensibly 'healing', all i can think

is that once again

i am receiver of an unjust universal balance,

righteousness for those crimes

i cannot remember, far before

I was me.

i'm suspended in time

too far from the past

and yet fingers just missing

the latest future as it barely slips by

escaping the grasp of this creature

I Am.

Love.

is rebellion,

in a universe that bids me

to surrender to bitter nothing.

attempts to push me further past the edge

of empathy

taunts me to my limit with each miss of new time-spun futures I glimpse,

glowing and warming my skin in this void

each one netted together, bound tightly

(don't let it get out - it's worth more than you are!)

and the worst are the ones

where the buzz is alive;

energy dancing, drawing me in,

only to glance off the pads of my fingers, leaving me

Desperate with a taste of possibility

then drawing away in a mico-second.

this endless prison that binds me with infinitesimal new threads

that emanate from every angle,

(or rather, non-angles of timeless, shapeless void)

but will not allow me to move forward or back--

this, I think, is true hell.

please pardon my silence.

speaking is pain

that I cannot endure

without compromise.

everyone is always

so scared

of a suicide note

but they don't think

about how

paper, and letters,

words in

pen or graphite, or

typed and printed out

typed out and

in ink,

they are all

harmless.

words are just words.

they cannot end a life.

so better to write

letter after letter -

dozens of them,

if that's what you need.

because in the end

writing a letter

or two

might just be

the one thing

that keeps you

alive

for long enough to

remember

why it is

you ~should~ be.

writing

your suicide note

might just

be what

saves you.

I must have been young

when I learned

the proper steps

how to wash my hands

to keep clean from germs.

in pre-school theey said,

"sing your ABCs"

"Happy Birthday twice"

but it wasn't anyone's birthday,

and ABCs were boring.

i sang twinkle, twinkle

little star

how i wondered

where and why and how -

can't the universe

know better

than to punish children

who are innocent

by giving them to parents

who hurt them?

twinkle, twinkle

little star

children only go so far

little hearts and little minds

cannot handle cruelty's lies

twinkle, twinkle

little star

what would punished parents fix?

my siblings never

saw the pain

the need for staying clean

i protected still

kept them neat so

he'd not scream

they never saw him

touch my mother

i would reassure

that the noises in the

room next door

were nothing of concern

and even after everything

he let the virus grow

he'd planted so early that

I'd failed to even notice

never stood a chance

never had a moment to

recant the tales that

he told to them.

horrid deeds, feed them poison

break the things

they work to gain

break their will

manipulate, take everything

to make them change

behavior to behave your way

and all the while

lay the blame on

someone else,

talk and train their tiny brains

to hate, repeat

the things you say

play the game

dissociate the damage

from the virus, take

the keys from the ignition

put them in the hands of

the main victim

of your violence.

this is how he did it.

never *had* to buy their silence.

put a gun up to their heads

spit the hatred and the filth

tell them line by line

lies and stories that you built.

and in the end it worked.

it works, I should say.

but no one else could see it.

no one knew he hurt

her in that way but

me. so they believed the words.

Viruses are dangerous.

but people?

we're far more so.

we get power to decide

to protect or let die

and even with the former

we can doom a person's soul.

because I protected them

i didn't let them see it

how he'd hit her and beat

how he'd yell and he'd scream

i kept them in a bubble,

and I thought it made me good

as a six year old big sister

like age-six big sisters should

and instead, you wanna know?

wanna hear what happened?

with no memories of him

as bad guy, mom the victim

he hijacked the habits

he got through the firewalls

undeveloped mainframes

easily bypassed and hacked

straight into their brains,

turning perpetrator 'victim'

and innocent to 'cruel'

he brainwashed with accompanying actions, words, and tools

results forever devastating

"mom" now equals "fear"

it equals memories of

threats in harm and violence

and years of childhood trauma,

two decades each of pain

he flipped the script

made "mom" a word

synonymous with "witch."

if only it were easy

to wash our hands of sin

and our brains of the hurt

that takes control of the center

a virus in motion, growing

spreading, resistant to

treatment;

nothing to do

but manage

the symptoms

and hope

(and pray)

that one day

they will wake.

why is everything you write

every line, word, and phrase

crafted oh so terribly and grimly?

don't worry yourself about

my melancholy words

and the shifts in my mood

chasing dopamine tricks, no,

I write love letters to death

at least twice a week

although, sometimes more,

see, last night I wrote three -

but the thing about letters and paper

is that they always will be

the best of two choices.

(i flirt with Death, while

you steal from the hearse.)