Table of Contents
It hasn’t killed me yet—
but it spreads.
From marrow to memory,
it seeds the femur,
threads the ribs,
scrapes its code into the curve
of my pelvis—
then metastasizes
to the contact list.
A slow ghosting:
first the bones thin,
then the texts.
First the flare,
then the silence
calcifies where contact was.
I want my scans to be clean—
not my notifications.
I get my denosumab shot
and call it armor.
Pretend the creak
in my hips is just weather.
Not absence.
Not another friend
backed away
from the edges
of their discomfort.
I still trace
the ridge of my ribs
like a list I forgot to update:
this one stopped replying on a Tuesday,
this one left up our photos
but never says my name,
this one posted brunch
with a caption that reads,
”grateful for my healthy friends”
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