pluck

My intestines hurt.

I can’t eat.

It hurts to digest.

What’s wrong with me?

I can’t keep eating myself sick.

Everything feels like poison.

I want to feel healthy again.

Able.

Energized.

I’m depleted.

I’m afraid.

I have this feeling that I’m not gonna be here for much longer.

I want to enjoy my life while I have it.

I want to enjoy my husband while I have him.

I want my husband to die when I die.

I want to die when my husband dies.

This melancholy is maddening.

I barely eat, yet I feel full.

I barely sleep, yet I dream heavy and humid.

This is not a cry for help, it’s just a literal wail.

A whimper.

A bawl.

A whine.

A sob.

A grieve.

A howl.

A cry.

A scream.

A blare.

Something to push my mind elsewhere other than the pain.

Lately, the time spent in our sanctuary has been magick.

Absolute magick.

I enjoy our silence, our laughter, our uncertainties.

I have never felt so comfortable with the parts of me he helps heal.

I need no one else, and that’s not a false hope that he will become everything, more of a declaration that I have enough to fill up the parts that he doesn’t.

Maybe that’s all fucking backwards, and I need some sort of “tribe” to interact with and learn from, but my insides say otherwise.

“Listen to your gut,” they say…

But what if you have IBS?

What then?

I’ll go with what I know, and what I’ve learned.

I thrive better alone.

I thrive better with a partner, that leaves me alone.

I flesh out my marrow when I’m alone.

This pain though, it growls.

It is hungry for nothing.

It pines for emptiness.

I listen,

and starve.

 

 

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