Squamous Cell Carcinoma
It begins in a hush—
a small rebellion of cells
beneath the sunlit frontier
of the skin.
A quiet trespass,
like a whisper against
an old scar,
gathering its courage
in keratin halls
we rarely think about.
I have walked beside it
for decades—
this stranger that grows
from ordinary flesh,
borrowing our light
to carve its own dark path.
I have seen it rise
in sun-blessed farmers,
in roofers laughing
against July,
in women who once
held the beach like a hymn.
Yet it is not invincible.
It is not a prophecy.
It is a lesson in attention—
a reminder that the body speaks
long before it cries.
A red edge,
a scaling shore,
a wound that refuses
to remember healing—
these are the quiet signals
written in the language
of vigilance.
And still,
there is wonder.
Because for every cell
that forgets its place,
there are millions
that remember
with astonishing precision
what it means to be whole.
So I stand—
between microscope and patient,
between science and the pulse
of mortal fear—
and I say:
You are not alone.
This story is not finished.
And even in malignancy,
there is a place
where hope proliferates faster
than any tumor
that dared to begin.
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