I've just woken up after far too little, poor quality sleep, to reports of the suicide of another Nova survivor, and already, the day has its cold, clawed hand wrapped around my thoracic spine.
I can't believe it's been almost a year.
In 40 days, it will be a year.
A year of our burnt, crushed and crumbling innards struggling to keep us alive, while the world mocked us.
A year of waiting for the pain to lessen– even only a little bit.
A year where our souls have transformed into something we'd never thought we'd own in these generations,
And now, another family's first year has been reset to zero, where it all begins again.
And I can't keep up with the dishes in the sink.
And the scrubby sponge I replaced just last week already smells sour.
And I–
I have to shower, get dressed and do my makeup so I can get to the lawyer's office,
but the gravity of the day
Is nothing compared to that of the void.
I swim furiously against it, in the
Non-substance of hypoxic air.
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