BREAST LUMP
a breast lump
clumping up your morning sex
like spoiled milk
in your cereal.
mammograms,
doctor visits,
on the week of halloween,
as if this isn’t scary
enough.
your foreplay transforms,
no, not into
a monster wearing a mask
asking for candy at your doorstep,
but into
a chainsaw wielding murderer
possessed by the notion
of chopping off your tit.
appointment after appointment,
you
become a ghost,
haunting yourself
with the idea that your
bag of candy
will turn into a bag
full of the hair you lost
during radiology.
the horror movies
run parallel to
the lives you visualize
yourself living,
and then,
amidst the bile,
the blood,
the despair,
your hand
grasps,
with claws, and nails
for a weapon.
the darkness allows you
enough time to hide,
to endure,
with shuttered breathes,
moments
before the murderer finds you.
stabbing,
lurching,
swinging,
you sprint
through the doors.
looking back,
out of breath,
panting,
expecting the next round
of fighting,
you see
an empty doorway.
no one’s coming after you.
the tests turn out
benign.