"The Body can only walk with you so far. You're going to have to die by yourself."
I've been alternating between hovering over an open toilet seat and lying in bed wishing I could be hovering over an open toilet seat. It's not the flu. It's another type of death. A constricting of the chest, with multiple short breaths. Listlessness. The desire to sink into my sheets and never be heard from again. (the lie of a question: would i be missed?) Shaking involuntarily, though no more tears can come. Staring at my shoes on the floor but not remembering where they have been or what they are for. Dreams allure me and then vomit me back to my cold bed.
"Yes, he does like someone else."
And that's that. And that's that just like that. He let me glimpse pages from the diaries of queens and princesses. He talked of futures and "when I'm done with school..." He ushered me in to a four-star feast and then banished me to the alley after the first few bites.
"I had Mozart to keep me company. He's up here. And they can't get to it. It's hope, Red, and they can't touch that."
My hands are still and open. A calm numbness settles on my chest. So this is death. Lord, please let Sunday morning come. I am desparate for your resurrection. You alone are hope. You alone are beautiful. There is no one more majestic, mysterious. Peel my fingers from the earthly. Breathe life into me again. I believe that you remain good. I believe that you remain love. I believe that you are my protector and vindicator. Be near me. Lie beside me and hold my hand as I die to this.
"Lord, I believe. Help my unbelief."