Drip, Drip, Drip: A Poem About Cancer

Drip, drip, drip,

Every three weeks, they poke me.

The red liquid going through plastic and into a tube,

“Your platelets are OK to continue.”

Drip, drip, drip.

Then, I’m down for three to five days.

Nausea, fatigue or both.

Trying to keep up with my work, my life,

the days go by while I rest in bed.

Something that I’m not used to.

Something that I’m getting used to.

Something that I have to get used to.

The drip, drip, drip,

is targeting and destroying what doesn’t need to be in my body.

What shouldn’t be there to begin with.

ATM, that f****** little genetic mutation

is not going to destroy me.

Two more weeks before my next

drip, drip, drip.

Two weeks of feeling like a rock star,

Like I could do and be anything.

Making plans as if I’m normal again,

but I’m not because of the

drip, drip, drip.

I’m getting used to walking slower,

getting things done in two weeks.

Doing less,

but definitely not being less.

The drip, drip, drip won’t take that from me.

This post was written and submitted by Ivannia Soto. The article reflects the views of Ivannia Soto and not of CURE®. This is also not supposed to be intended as medical advice.

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