I will regard my chest and see a dressmaker’s doll, with stitches I don’t care for and contours I don’t recognise.
I will second guess, odds assess, and throw the book.
I will lie on my back and have saline injected into me via a terrifying syringe. I will grip the nurse’s hand and fill my ears with tears. It’s because it doesn’t hurt, that it hurts.
I will regularly reach into my bag of fucks to give, and find it entirely empty.
I will look for strength in vulnerability and sometimes I’ll find it. More typically, I’ll find more vulnerability.
I will dig deep physically, emotionally, mentally and spiritually.
I will see my flexibility unravel, my biceps unsculpt. My toes can’t be touched and I can’t raise my arms.
I will spiral down from optimist to cynic, I will cheerlead and sneer.
I will feel bored and dismayed by the amount of real estate you occupy in my head.
I will make some people advance and others retreat. Some surprise hug me, others cross the street.
I will write and cry, write and cry.
I will survey mental rubble and face a mammoth rebuild effort.
I can do it all, and see a way out of it ALL. But I am broken forever and completely and surely beyond repair by this fact: every time I see my daughters’ tiny naked bodies, I will wonder.