NOVEMBER, DREADED NOVEMBER

I live in a house where joy’s been evicted,

Where laughter whispers like a ghost—restricted,

Where sorrow wears shoes that never come off,

And illness sets the table, pouring bitter cups of “enough.”

Cancer, you burglar, you shadow-clad thief,

Kicking doors down with your wrecking-ball grief.

You don’t knock—you invade.

You don’t take just life—you take peace,

You steal time like it’s spare change

Dropped carelessly under couch cushions.

You’re a liar, cancer.

You promise quick endings and slow torture,

You gnaw bones and spirit alike.

You wear names like tumors:

Stage Four.

Relapse.

Metastasis.

Words that leave people speaking in whispers,

Afraid to say your name out loud,

Like Voldemort but real.

Too real.

You decorate my house in shades of gray,

Every wall echoes with phrases I hate.

"Stay strong."

“God has a plan.”

“Let me know if I can do anything.”

Yeah, you can.

You can punch cancer in the face for me,

Because I’m tired of swinging fists at shadows.

But let me tell you what you won’t do.

You won’t break me.

You won’t own my soul.

Because though this house is broken, cracked, and tired,

I am still here.

Hear me—

I. AM. STILL. HERE.

Breathing.

Living.

Rising.

And you can’t steal that.

You can’t dim the light of those who love me.

You can’t swallow hope whole, no matter how hard you choke.

Yeah, my house is haunted—

By grief, by pain, by words that hit like fists.

But joy?

Joy is guerrilla warfare, baby.

It hides in the cracks of “still alive,”

In a sunrise I didn’t expect to see,

In the soft comfort of someone holding my hand.

You’ll never take it all, cancer.

You can’t win, even if you think you do.

Because every time I smile,

Every time I laugh,

Every moment I choose to be well,

I am living proof—

You lose.