The other day, without warning, the stinging pain hit me again. Phantom reminder that it’s there. Still there. Months have passed since my excision. No one told me this might happen after healing. In the bathroom mirror, I pull down my shirt, back left shoulder exposed. There it is–my scar. A reminder of how fragile life really is.

Melanoma in situ. Back in April. An early catch…a lucky catch. Treatable, curable by excision alone. Who knows where I’d be if I had waited any longer. I put that appointment off for months.

They say it healed beautifully. And it did. My surgeon’s work is flawless. And still, I cried. I cried with the diagnosis. I cried with gratitude for catching it in time. “Oh God, please. I have children.”…

…Holy shit. My children.

And now all that’s left is a scar. My pink scar tissue. Haunting, sometimes stinging, reminder of what happened.

Just like with you.

There was nothing. Then something. Then gone. Left with this burning scar. As with my cancer, there is no trace of you.

Fuck me for not noticing.

Fuck you for your silence.

Scar tissue that I wish you saw.