You are like dust.
I do not remember what I was like before you.
My origin.
You invade my pores, seemingly finding your way into every nook and cranny of my heart.
You cover me in a thin film, and even as I try to dust you off, I breathe you in.
You are like dust.
You are so minute, your presence nearly insignificant, but ten years later, I look back and can pinpoint where you began to poison me. A little less than half my life ago, and I can feel the resulting cancer like a hammer in my back.
You are like dust.
You are the cloud of anthrax, the particles of asbestos that flip switches in your cells until your body cannot tell the difference between friend and foe.
And, I cannot tell the difference. Still.
You are like dust.
It does not matter how often I run a feathered brush over my existence,  working to erase every particle, you always find a way to sneak back in.
Until you cover all of me in your memory.
You are like dust.
One moment inconsequential in your minuscule size, the next, wrapping everyone up in your storm cloud.


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