Prostate Cancer

The world was silent.

Well, not really.

It carried on in it's

Usual ruckus of noise

As if nothing had changed.

But my ears were no longer listening.


Four wheels pulled into the parking lot

And we all walked inside

Clear glass doors,

Transparent and cold.

Our shoes trudged on through

Endless, white hallways with muted accents,

leaving breadcrumbs of white in their trail.


Turn left






A familiar door stood

tall and obtrusive against the left wall.


I sank into a seat,

Staring unseeingly at colorless tile floors

For. . . a minute?

An hour or a day?

Timeless moments.

Then, a creak of the door

Motioned inside

by my father's fingers.


Upon entering,

Tiles faded away

As my eyes rose to

White sheets, 

Shiny metal,

And once warm hands that

Lay still.


Your eyes were open,

That shine gone

And skin, a sickly, pale yellow,

A color I would passionately hate 

For months to come.


How could you leave?

I am only nine,

Still needing your guidance

Because though I have known

God since I can remember,


I don't understand Him.

Especially now.


You won't be there

For my attack a

Few months ahead.

Breaking my leg,



Or my wedding.


You won't get to know

The hatred I feel

Every breast cancer month

or "awareness" event

During which I want to shout

"We are all aware!

What are you really going to do?"

Because when the male equivalent

broke into your temple

turned your cells against you

robbed the breath from your lungs

We don't notice.

This poem is about: 
My family
My country


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