Sometimes you have to gut yourself.
Carve out the cancer 
with an old rusty knife and no anesthesia
to suffer every slice and tear.
The searing of your flesh against the blade
— a reminder those reckless actions
that felt damn good in the moment
were not so good for you.
And this pain that leaves you
gasping, bent over, scratching your way
across the hardwood floor —
this is your healing.
This is your becoming.