She has returned . . . a former, archaic
version of myself that I had ignorantly believed I would never need
again. Her revival has not been so subtle, and she has reprised her
role as the destructor of my life, the tamer of hope, and the
inventor of all necessity to be alone.

She brings with her every negative
thought she has collected over this life, constantly reminding me of
my baseness and worthlessness. And I, needing her to get me through
every elongated second, believe every nasty comment she purports
about me. Because God knows every time I’ve ever had a positive
thought about myself it has been burned to ash by someone else’s
reality.

The promise of hope is lost. Every
cut, every purge, every drink, every missed meal bears her
fingerprints and her assurance that only she can bring comfort.

I know the significance of her
resurrection. Coming back to life will lead to my death. But I’ve
been living dead too long to count now, and I don’t mind letting go.
In fact, I’ve asked for it, which is why she’s come.

I do not have the luxury of turning her
away this time. I can’t do this on my own, and I have no one else to
scatter away the tears that collect daily on my face.

And there is nothing anyone can do to
help me. No amount of attention, intervention, or abandonment can
affect me. I am in this alone, as I’ve always been.
If I don’t bow out of life now, I will be expelled out later, and
there is no coming back in anyone’s space from that. There will not
even be a shadow of a woman to trace through the day.

I would like to confess it doesn’t hurt anymore, but, in truth, it isn’t decent how deeply I ache.

I wear wounds that would give you nightmares.