DIAGRAM

He drew a diagram of future me.
A disfigured thing, hard to accept.
I'm scared you'll find me loathsome - or even worse
an object of ridicule: a lopsided woman,
in fact no longer quite woman at all
but some freak show exhibit, a gimmick
to make women feel more attractive in comparison
and think thank God that isn't me!

I imagine you frowning then, diagram
on the table in front of you, as recollections
of the whole, symmetrical me give way
to an image of revulsion - a gore fest:
desired lover, carved up by sharp steel
as if a rump steak. Surely this cannot be me!
But my denial is your conviction: you'll have to accept
that we will be changed forever.

And you'll peruse the diagram again.
A simple sketch - just squiggles of ink
casually drawn like so many times before,
only this time it's my breast, my life
laid bare. Then a blob of ink - like blood -
spreading out, obliterating the nipple
as if some shocking omen of things to come.
Then you'll see within it my fading image

eclipsed by the shadow of the Reaper...