Don't look away, you gave me this disease.
A carrier, you passed it unawares.
My every cell is altered now; each bears
your stamp, a mutant, every drop of me
adulterated. If I could, I'd squeeze
the stinging poison out. It's in my hair,
my fingernails, each microscopic pair
of spiral strands, corrupting by degrees.
Geneticists who study me on slides
could piece you back together. My remains
will carry traces, in these scalded veins,
of your warm hand; in my triglycerides,
and in the deepest etchings of my brain,
they'll find the you my body memorized.
If you have any comments on this poem, Rose Poto would be pleased to hear from you.