I cut the cancer from my mind a hundred thousand million times and though I thought I got the last of every bit I must admit a mass of it still clings somehow to shadowed parts within and now I find myself with knife in hand again I cut and sear and brand to tear this seething bleeding hunk asunder from my head.

I'm pretty sure it's done this time but when I check the wound I find I missed another piece beneath a darkened thought or mental crease and with a surgeon's gentle care I go back in and rip and shear and brush aside the twinge of fear that I may lose something I need along with what I shed.

Somehow even after all the purging I begin to fall back into states of consciousness that I am sure I didn't miss when making the precision cuts, the greatly planned incisions but nevertheless I find myself there in a mess and all my best intentions to the contrary have left me floating in a sea of all the feelings that I had so carefully removed by hand and purged and burned and left behind, but one remained to own my mind:  that crafty sneaky naughty fear now left me here for dead.