Metastasizing—
A word I tasted early,
folding into the hospital air
they left at the door.
Mom and Dad,
two halves of a savior I could never be,
kept their other home hidden:
sterile lights, orange bottles,
the hush of rooms
where hearts stuttered and started again.

Should that have been me?
The heroine with hands steady as incisions,
a spine of steel beneath a surgeon’s coat of white.
Instead, I cursed myself to save myself—
grateful, perhaps, for the absence of pressure.
But what did they see in their calling
that I could not follow?
I sit outside their world,
wondering if healing is a gift I lack,
or a burden I feared to bear.

Medicine lingers everywhere:
in pill bottles rattling like wind chimes,
the charted lines of EKGs,
the beep of a heart monitor,
the antiseptic tang biting my tongue,
my pulse quickening at the thought
of emergencies I wouldn’t know how to handle.
I’ve built a life far from their realm—
what if I can’t save myself?
What if someone I love needs saving?

Thin and trembling,
my own body betrayed me once,
devouring itself like a snake
swallowing its tail.
I stood at the edge of myself,
each brittle breath a glass that might shatter.
Was I beautiful then?
In my frailty, my insides shutting down,
I wore sickness like a gown
tailored for someone else’s care.

In their white coats,
they closed the distance
needles sharp with promises,
hands confident and certain
like architects drafting blueprints of hope.
Their steadiness became scripture
etched into the lines of my memory,
their bravery rendering me small
cradled in hands that know too much,
a compass I still follow in the dark.

Now I crave their certainty,
their calm against my panic
beneath fluorescent skies.
Is this what I’ll search for—
not in their footsteps,
but in the steady hands of a partner
who knows how to mend what breaks.
For the quiet peace of feeling safe,
seeking a savior
that I can’t stop needing.

Love will be a pulse against the monitor,
a breath to measure,
a doctor by my side
to soothe the fears
they couldn’t leave behind.
Or will I find
I’ve always been the savior
learning to stitch myself whole?
The way scars grow softer
but never disappear.