I am down the line, an inch ahead of sorrowful. The breath of purpose rests in suspension. It is unfulfilled and underdeveloped.
Every day, I continue to wake up in debilitating pain. The doctor, that one on the corner who knows my body better than my husband in a parallel universe, he tells me it is fibromyalgia. I say nothing to him, but stare directly through him with mockery, derision, and incredulity.
Not me, certainly not me. I am sentimental, not hysterical. Say that I am permanently melancholy. Say that I contracted a disease from one of the ghosts I always talk about, and I should be more careful. Just do not say I have a housewife’s illness.
This isn’t real. This is a poison reprogramming the body. It is emotional pain manifested in every joint. It is a binding of the huntress inside of me. I will never again run barefoot and wild-eyed, through wet earth and tall grass. The rain will now forever hurt when it touches my skin.
Life has many jokes, told with as much delicacy and grace as a Viking at a ballet recital.