I knew the scar was coming
and after three opinions, the surgeon was chosen with care,
this one less cavalier,
instilling a quiet hope that I might still recognize
the face in the mirror.
As the shiny scalpel cut away flesh
and the unruly cells that would not heal no matter what,
there was no going back,
words like beautiful and pretty,
falling away like a handful of coins,
no longer viable currency in this world.
Only afterwards did I realize,
I still held more valuable currency,
the words, light and love,
the illusion of losing my true self, irrevocably shattered.