My immortal gone. Dead. Mortal after all. My constant. My anchor. My source. My well of favor. My love and lover. My punching bag. My piss-pot. My most precious possession. My cushion. My refuge. My shield. My own. Mine. Not yours. Theirs, but only a little. My breasts. My arms. My bottom. My legs. My fingers. My smile. My mirrior. My one.
Finished. Left. Gone to a place I cannot find or fathom, a place I cannot touch, now speaking a language in too high a register for my mortal ears to hear. My ma mother mamai mamalai mummy mumsy mamemimomu.
Of what use is sanity? Even if I let go now and become as stark raving as the mad hatter hisself! Won’t I still be able to write? Can words dare to desert me? She gave them to me. They’re mine. Mine gift. I can stop trying. I can let go. A little.
When I wasn’t aching. When I wasn’t dying of death.
When was that?