Cut

I look in the mirror for the cut
that is not mine
but hers.
It should be mine, what,
with my desire for self flagellation.
My breast in reflection is full
and slightly sagging.
I would take the cut. I would cherish the scar
I would press myself against the radiation
taking it from her into my own body
somehow cutting
in the process the bitter core of my being
the pride I take in nothing but my breasts
because all else is abhorrent.
We do not chose
but if we could I would choose her errant cells
her scar, her worry
to take my mind off the pain of being whole
her breast for mine.
I cup the rude swell of flesh
incapable of changing anything
the pure are punished
the punishable left untouched