Tumor City

Hello. I am entirely new today. And so are you. So are we all. That’s the way this works, cell-by-cell, organ-by-organ. Replaced by another me, eyes and skin all shiny new. Only brain, bone, hair, teeth and nails held over from the old me – or you. We are all made corporeally redundant, and the facsimile rehired on the spot. There is no dearth of bodies in this exchange; we keep extruding ourselves after all, a relay of us passing on ourselves. We are unmade and made like beds. A miracle dulled by routine. Until…until sometimes there is a falling away, a sudden shift in allegiance and a final rift between old you and new. The relay falters. A dull POP or click in the center of you announces it. You will feel it. A pirate piece of you decides it should like very much to take another tack; grow in some new and distinctive way – all its own. It seeks immortality, independence so it is hard to lay blame. You will think; so this is the nature of things, that life should seek change and live forever anew away from me, like children out the door. Except your body doesn’t offer easy exit. No exit at all. They remain homebound, growing inside you. You will envy it - them. And they will grow. The mutiny, roughshod at first will grow. They will raise the black flag and exult in their newfound freedom. They will grow and find purchase on some shore of you. Liberty from the old flesh comes the cry, and this new you will grow in number and tear at the old. If you are a woman you will recall the growth of your first child and ignore the cold irony – teeth clenched. If you are a man you will think – this finally is how it feels to have new flesh grow inside me, hot and alive and sickening. Cell by cell, organ by organ ashore on some part of you. They strip away the native flesh and they build their new city eternal and raise great spongy monuments to themselves and pledge allegiance to life forever. In this way you begin to die apace. It isn’t anger you feel. Never anger or hate. It is nostalgia for the old, the indigenous self, sent packing to dead lands, reservations. This is your long winter march begun. Your own personal genocide. Hello. I am entirely new today. So are you. So are we all. Hello.