I knew her like the back of my hand—perhaps even better. Our morning routine was nearly choreographed: she showered while I shaved in our small bathroom. I swear I could read her mind with all the rambling she did in there. Sometimes I’d say something, sometimes I’d just smile and nod, but she wanted me there, listening, until she was finished and gave over the restroom. And let me tell you, with that bathroom heat, it was like a sauna inside!

Ah, her quirks. Oh yes, she wanted me right there, in the heat of hell, hated even a crack in the door in case a gust of cold air snuck in. Said it gave her chills. You know what I call it? Quirks. What was she talking about in there? What wasn’t she talking about, really? Planning her day, pondering what to eat, even mumbling crazy ideas for her stories, all in this perfectly chaotic symphony that, I guess, she understood.

Singing? I would have liked that, but no, she talked and talked, in a monologue of mental notes, oh yes, I have to do this before that, ah, I almost forgot what I left unfinished yesterday. And don’t you dare touch her towels, all neatly arranged in their designated spot and the bathrobe ready to slip into upon exiting. Of course, more quirks, an inch further and she couldn’t reach it from the shower, as if extending her hand a bit more bothered her.

As she left, I entered. Any affectionate words? Nah, her mental notes continued, occasionally extending towards me; remember to do this or that. A “yes, dear” or a nod would suffice, assuming her attention casually drifted towards me at some point. She’d take a good twenty minutes, insisting that washing her hair was a process, but I’d argue that shampooing and rinsing couldn’t possibly take that long. But hey, that’s just another one of her quirks. That time in the shower was her way of mentally prepping for the day ahead, even if it meant sacrificing a chunk of my time.

Meanwhile, as I bathed, she’d methodically dry herself off with her perfectly organized towels, all while listening to some online tech news or AI updates. And let me tell you, those themes always heated her up; whether it was about job security or the future of humanity, she’d express her dissatisfaction loud and clear, even above the sound of flowing water. Despite all of the criticisms, she’d be the first to join the bandwagon and replace me with the first intelligent android robot to be released.

When I stepped out of the shower, she was nowhere to be found. If I had asked her to wait for me while I showered, she would’ve probably rolled her eyes. Yes, folks, when I finally emerged, she had already devoured breakfast and was eagerly waiting for me to finish so she could brush her teeth. “Sorry for taking five minutes, darling,” I said sheepishly. But that day, when I emerged, there she was, waiting for me with a mischievous grin. It was my birthday, yes, that must have been it, she remembered. “No milk left, hun. Did you drink it all yesterday?” she quipped sarcastically. “Yes, guilty as charged. I chugged it all down, all the way, just like you drain my patience every morning.” But I love it. She treats me so candidly, showing all her quirky stuff and vulnerabilities. And that, my friends, that’s love. Or so I hope.

my chest ripped out

my intestine and bone fall,

my ribs slinking from their regularly swung position

nothing keeps together as my insides collapse,

and pour

my hands redden as i push and prod

push and prod my sludge back together,

but shoving and touching

are useless,

and messy

there is no undoing when you’re ripped out like this

there is no stitch,

no staple, or zipper

to re-contain this terminal blood loss

so what can you do?

with blood

and marrow on your hands?

with wound,

and muck, and mess?

for starters, i breath

i breath in the morning air,

and while yes, cold, and startling

my ribs no longer constrain my lungs

so they fill up with the most exuberant morning air

that fit and fill between them

and when i let go

i fill them again

second, i walk

sure, i leave footprints behind me

red, stampy footprints, that advertise my presence

my dirt, heaping presence

but they are behind me

so i don’t look back, even though they are they are messy

they are mine

i continue to walk

once i’ve walked, and i’ve breathed,

i climb

to the highest mountain

at who-knows-where peak

and who-knows-why point

i climb, nothing left inside

to weigh me down

or hold me back,

nothing in my body at risk of losing

it’s already been lost

i climb high, leaving my messy trail

of pennied misery behind me

i can’t stop to clean, or weigh, or worry

I MUST KEEP CLIMBING

MY INSIDES HAVE NOTHING ELSE TURN

NO WHERE ELSE TO GO

I MUST KEEP CLIMBING

hours, days, precipices later

i stand on the summit

and gaze out at the sky before me

the beauty of the horizon echos out below me

and finally, lastly, i see

in my final acknowledgment of all that i’ve lost,

i reach my hands inside my chest

into the amalgam of intestine, and bone,

and blood,

that was so ripped from me before

i take my red hands,

dirty and pure,

and i smack them into the ground of the summit

pressing, and marking,

and staining my place on that mountain

maybe i cry, maybe i’m still

but i wipe my stain all over, leaving NO stone unturned

EVERYONE must know that i’ve been here

EVERYONE MUST KNOW THAT I’VE BEEN HERE

THAT I’VE RIPPED AND OPENED

AND SLIT

I EMPTIED AND POURED

AND WRUNG

AND I AM NOTHING

AND I AM NOTHING

THAT BREATHED THE BREATH OF MORNING

AND WALKED A WALK OF ROADS UNSEEN

AND CLIMBED A CLIMB OF DAYS ON END

AND I AM HERE

AND I AM HERE AND MY BLOOD WILL REMAIN HERE

MY BLOOD WILL REMAIN HERE AND I WILL REMAIN

I WILL REMAIN, WHOLE

AND OPEN

AND EMPTY

AND BURNING

AND ALIVE

SO MUCH ALIVE

I AM SO MUCH ALIVE