To: Occupant

tenant, squatter, invader.
Occupied, preoccupied,
general, observer, battlefield all at once.

Who is it living in my skin?

Stalked by black brushfires in the cellular forest,
your life will never be the same again.
Consequences are as graspable as morning mist.
The smell of a hospital fills you with unnamed terror.
Every bit of bad news echoes, echoes,
endless echoes dying in a sterile hallway.

Who is it living in my skin?

Translucent images in black-and-white
hide the tones of flesh and grief. We're not that color,
not those pictures, that's some stranger posing.

Who is it living in my skin?

New words like "management", "remediation",
move uninvited into the personal lexicon.
"Cured" is a bright-winged butterfly
fleeing through distant shafts of sunlight.
"Living with" came and squatted sullen on the doorstep--
but it looks better there than "dying of".

Who is it living in my skin?

Embers still smolder in the cellular forest.
Firewatch towers stare into summer haze
alert for any whiff of smoke. Life goes on.

Who is it living in my skin?