It is six am. My room is bathed in soft blue light, And the rain picks up and beats itself against my rooftop. The silence between the drops feels louder than the storm but not louder than my thoughts.. Because when it’s six am, and raining, I pick up the dreams of the future that I’ve tucked away in some old shoebox at the back of my mind and play them against the lids of my eyes until I’m picturing wraparound porches with our dog nestled comfortably beneath the bench we sit on.. And blankets draped over shoulders and coffee still hot enough to burn our tongues. And I’m imagining large open windows mirroring large open fields and the wind blowing just enough to let the smell of damp earth and gardenias float down from the hills into the livingroom where it settles and soaks into our furniture. Because in my dreams, our faces are aged, but our love is still young.. and our hearts are still full, and our hands are still perfect fitting pieces of the same puzzle we’ve been building for last thirty years. And the sky is a soft blue. And it’s six am. And it’s raining.

Marry me, sweetest, Let me show the world how beautiful you are in every magnificent moment when you are but softly existing. Let me fill the world with the warmth of your being, the magic of your presence, the enchantment of your love. Let them witness the miracle  that is you.

I remember your face  against my flesh; my face against the floor; salty eyes glazing my cheeks so shiny and clinging to the light emitting from the crack below the door that I prayed (twenty times in every language) would somehow just swing open. But months and years of prayers (like unopened letters tossed to the side) were left unanswered.  So instead my mind would step  away and out of my skin to dance with the shadows in the closet. An endless waltz with the fantasies of being like the moths that take shelter in the pockets of old jackets -  so tiny and delicate with wings of paper, but who could always fly away untouched and unharmed.

Daggers in the form of words are thrown off your tongue. Little attention is paid to their direction, at least you cut some flesh. How did it come to this? The eyes of a lover are no longer recognizable behind this monster you’ve become. Sharpened thoughts carve through every inch of your mind to find some reasoning behind it all. Calling out “I just want answers” to the dark surroundings.. feeling the vibrations. Mistaking the echoes for a response. You hold pitiful conversations with the emptiness as shadows crawl throughout the vacant cavity that once held your heart. You’re still alone. You’re still miserable. You still believe otherwise. I watch as you burn yourself from the inside out with the fire of regret you refuse to let go. How did it come to this?

Body rebels – body turns – body is a traitor as white as the truce flag you are waving and death leaves kisses etched into your skin in blue – purple – yellow splotches like watercolour against the ink lines of your shrinking frame. Bones crack like buried artifacts and joints are stiff to even subtle movements like frozen replacements for a body that once held warmth. Pain is a new pulse that spirals down your ribcage like a staircase to sleep in your spine and swallow your limbs. You never thought you’d see the time when strength was a privilege – eating was a privilege – energy was a privilege – you have been so damn privileged taking for granted every breath that didn’t cause your chest to feel like the shifting of hollow ground on the verge of collapse and every fluid and controlled movement of muscles that now choose to orchestrate without your consent. On good days you will still feel the urge to cry; to create rivers of despair so that maybe you might drown out these feelings of helplessness. But repeat after me: You are not helpless. You are not the waiting room where your thumbs dance nervously to the hums of medical devices. You are not the diagnosis whose stone-like syllables leave your tongue too heavy to lift. You are not a convenience store to be robbed of your name - your strength - your identity. Stop letting this sickness define you like it has any right to take you hostage in the burning building of your body. You are not a hostage. You are a phoenix soul. And you will rise from these ashes.

But there - sleeping with the mildew between the groutlines of this tiled bathroom and scattered among the breadcrumbs left on the mattress.. all broken down so effortlessly; like our wills, like our love.. There was our reality: Calling out, “Look at what you are.”

Shadows dance over these bare walls that reflect the bones of my cage and screams echo throughout my lungs.. but are never released, I am silent. I could drown in my own terror. I am afraid. I am afraid. Of me.

I want to shed this skin that clings too tightly to my ribcage to expand and wraps itself around my neck like rope squeezing the last drop of oxygen from my lungs. No-one ever warns you that even flesh can become too heavy some days to lift out of bed and that the valleys of your body can become full like pools of poured concrete, imprisoning your soul in the permanent cell that is your own existence.

They say that the cells in our bodies are constantly dying and giving birth to new cells. That every bone and fingernail and stray strand of hair will eventually be replaced. And isn’t that a lovely notion? To think.. that one day I might awake with skin that your hands have never touched and a body more pure than the one you stole and stained.

Because every Thursday since then my body has tied knots in my stomach like a safety cord to hold in all of this pain.. and my heart has tightened its grip on my esophagus making even the mutter of your name seem like an act of treason against a mind who tells me not to think of you.

No matter how hard I scrub, the feeling still lingers on my skin. No amount of washings or apologies will ever rid me of this aching emptiness that was given to me in exchange for what they stole.