you keep telling me nowhere, that the birds are screaming instead of singing, that one hand feels the same as any other in mine, that this isn’t another invocation of uniforms buttoning, of them touching our lapels and saying “there, that’s perfect”. cancer feels like more of the same until you recognize it killing you, until everyone has already said “same same same” while stacked, while striped, while I tell you that I’ve already had your argument so tell me when your argument is done having you.