Breast cancer is not pink

Breast cancer is not pink. 

It’s not cute or sexy. 

It’s not a ribbon. 

Not pink shoes on football players. 

It’s women dying. 

It’s not a free boob job. 

It’s not a “good cancer.”

It’s unpredictable and reckless. 

It’s the taste of saline and the hunt for more cancer. 

It’s anxiety. 

It’s going to the hospital instead of showing up for your kids at school. 

It’s biopsies and endless hair in the sink. 

It’s days of feeling hungover without a decent cocktail to thank. 

It’s hating yourself and everyone else. 

It’s emptiness. 

It’s not kissing the lives you brought to Earth, to protect them from your toxic body.

It’s people saying “you’re too young.” 

It’s hospital gowns. 

It’s so many needles and squandered hours. 

It’s depression. 

It’s saying you’re fine but knowing you’ll never be fine again. 

It’s being surrounded and alone. 

It’s breaking down at 2am. 

It’s having no guarantees. 

Breast cancer is not pink.