Well, Sh*t: a true story of Cancer, Prayer, and Emotional Shrapnel

Third Letter to Cancer

I try to banish you, fiend,

I try to cast you away,

a shunning as devastating

as excommunicating my own child,

carving you out of me

as easily as an inverted tattoo,

taking away the flesh instead of

infusing me with ink.

It would be easier if you were a demon,

because nothing withstands the name of Christ.

I could exorcise you with holy water,

and laugh when the droplets burn me alive.

My rampant positivity is an exorcist,

with a very low success rate

when inner demons look an awful lot like cancer.

They still tell me nothing can withstand his name anyway,

but the medication makes me forget to pray.