I was determined to get out of this small town that closes at midnight,
away from the same people,
the same stories,
the same roads with the same destination,
and just when I was about to make my escape
one word stopped me dead in my tracks
like a deer in headlights that was bound to get hit.
I wasn’t asking for a diagnosis.
I didn’t need to hear that I was sick,
fucked up just a little bit more than the rest.
I already knew it,
avoided it like a sentence,
as if it was pretended.
I didn’t have time for it.
I was woman.
I never asked for my expiration date to be handed to me on a silver platter,
nor the advice on how to handle it,
cope with it,
and forced to fight it.
No one should be forced into war with the inevitable.
So why should I “God?”
Why me, “God Almighty?”
I never asked to be a warrior.
It wasn’t supposed to be me.
Never in my life did I think that I would be the one.
I don’t smoke.
I barely drink.
I have kids who need me.
And yet, of course, the first thought I had
as a woman
was about losing my hair,
but it’s the one thing that makes me feel pretty,
No woman wants to lose her hair,
and before you know it you want to discuss stealing both of my breasts.
My breasts I fed my kids with.
My breasts that allow my stomach to look flatter than it actually is.
My breasts that are what makes me woman.
I was only diagnosed a few weeks ago
after years of feeling fine,
and yet you already want to dismantle me
and expect me to be grateful for only losing a few parts of myself.
I say fuck you and your cynical ways.
Let me get a second opinion,
so both of you can describe me as poisoned.
for talking to me so nonchalantly as if my womanhood is so unnecessary ,
as if I can easily do without it.
I will go to war against the odds
because I have no other choice,
and maybe I will be defeated,
but one thing is for sure
I will show you all how much this woman is worth.