I dream a room full of mirrors. In them I like to stare long and hard until the focus is no longer my body, my face, my eyes. I can only focus on my pupils. They are black. They are so black I am reminded of water that looks black from a distance, darkened by depth, and I'm convinced I'll go blind for staring so long, no longer being able to see my face clearly enough to feel the sleepless nights, long hours, the faint line on my forehead, the crease at the corners of my eyes, lips. I float. Not the kind of floating that is uplifting, the kind that pulls the body from itself like it is rising. I float, but it is a subtle pull, pulling down. I float, fall into the darkness. All of the angles, the lights, they stay above me, in my periphery, they stream, flood toward me, strike my hands.
I've never been this cold before. Not the type of cold that aches in the feet, causes convulsions in the jaw—the kind that freezes the mind, thoughts stuck on repeat with no volume control or power button to stop them. Really cold. I feel my body twist in the sheets, one hand passing through the air, my breath coming in a whisper, words I've not known trailing along the tip of my tongue. The deep red of muscle flexing beneath my ribs, seeping into my vision, pushing past my thoughts in some semblance of words. I float above it. My hand passes through the light, rays splaying through the spaces. Everything slows down. I'm hyper-aware of myself, every fault amplified a million times. There is no sound of breathing, of life. The oxygen seeps into me through the light.
I sink. The light dulls, fades, becomes more particle-like, specks of energy shimmering in front of me. I'm awake. Half-awake. I'm suspended. There is resistance surrounding me. It takes more effort to wave my hand. The particles chase my fingertips, stream behind the motion; stars escaping from my pockets, yellow pennies bubbling from my skin. I settle slowly. I'm frozen.
Thump. Thump. Thump. I hear it though I'm not sure I've ever felt it. Fear. My heart. There is fear. Pain. Lack of cadence. It's no longer pumping blood and oxygen through my body. It's protecting my body from pain. I fear its breaks. Everything is flowing from just this organ. I'm numb. It feels like plucking a delicate lily, fresh in the dew, slicing the petals in half because the whole petals were too plump, too large to appreciate, plucking the stamen because it was too fuzzy, dipping the rest of the disfigured bloom into a bucket of white pain to mute the blush of pink as though life itself were a blemish.
I'm soaked. I turn my head and see the white of my skin. I'm naked. I'm still and quiet. There's no friction. Strangely, I'm prepared for death. No, not this minute, this second. Maybe not tomorrow or in the coming months or years. Maybe not in 20 years, but one day. This is as close as I'll get to seeing myself motionless. See myself. I think of what it means to know me, to see myself lying on my back. I pull my hands to my side. They follow slowly. I lift my arms into the weight, the viscosity, fold my hands on my stomach. I look hard and deep into the light, look for signs of motion, hold my breath and listen for moving air. I wonder if, even hope, I'll die soon so this moment is all I'll need to feel my own passing. It's a much more silent, tender moment, private even. No tears. No family or friends. Just me.
I pull my right hand up to my breast, press firmly, wait. My chest doesn't rise, but I feel a beat through my palm. I wonder whose beat I'm really feeling. I listen to it throb inside my ears. My body tingles knowing how one day it will no longer by mine. My heart has changed, the beat impossible to count, decipher, pink scars having either severed or combined them. I'm falling. Sinking.
The light waves its soft tentacles. I return the gesture and soldier on up to the end with as much confidence as possible, though I feel I'm overdoing it. I always do. My eyes close. I'm hungry. Hunger comes naturally. I have nothing but to eat what time has left for me. I bite down hard on my tongue to satisfy my sudden starvation, hoping the pressure would alleviate my growing discomfort. My pain is lack of breath, though I'm at peace. I smile awkwardly, chewing the inside of my cheeks as though there were something to be said, something to be hungry for. The seconds grow colder, and for a brief moment, this hunger, this life faded away, leaving me with nothing more than knowing how easily I could be erased because there seemed to be nothing more, just angles, light.
I'm alive, haunted. And, for now, that's enough.