Another Rorschach Test

The only thing more depressing than one biopsy is two. And let this be clear: no one even thinks I have cancer. They just like to take out tiny morsels of me and examine them under a microscope. They sit in the back lab and swap cells the way we swap stories, the way teenagers swap spit. The doctors peer through the lens at the bit of me and place bets. It’s a Rorschach inkblot to them. It’s a blood clot. It’s a butterfly.

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