Again with the darkness, I’m too aware there is light, but only as a memory.
Since it happened my body’s rhythm has altered in what I can only assume is an innate self preservation. My memories of before are sun drenched and full of life, whilst now all I can see in my future is darkness, a surprisingly comforting space, and death.
I wake with the familiar acidic taste on my tongue and a palpable beating in my temple that I know cannot be there, it tells me I need to be feeding. After a life of smugly embracing the cult of the body perfectionist, vainly adhering to newest fads and most ridiculous regimes, I used my body as a way of belittling people who weren’t as perfect; I’m galled it has come to this. Opposingly to how I appraised my frame and caressed my body each morning, glorying in the blindness of who I thought I was, now when I wake up at dusk I run my tongue along my teeth praying that I won’t find two sharp points there that will burst my dreams as well as the many delicate veins each night.