I am… by Sian Evans

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Sian Evans

typewriter love

I am the cold virus that invades your nostrils as I mouth the words I adore you, exhaling warm moist air all over your face; a shroud I made.  Stitch and sew and stitch and sew.  You look beautiful, pale and covered.  A mannequin face; showing the world nothing of what is transpiring inside you.  Me.  I am inside you.  I am of the Coronavirus species; I wear a crown, sometimes called a halo, but I am not that angelic.  You will be my queen.

I fear you will be like Medea, although I will not be your Jason.  Was he a wronged man or was she just woman?

  • He didn’t love her anymore.
  • He loved her. He just loved power and status more.
  • Falling out of love is possible.
  • And loving two women equally is normal?
  • It’s not abnormal.
  • You know nothing of love.
  • I know what I feel for you.
  • Limited
  • Enough
  • There are rules.
  • Figured you’d say that.
  • Love is an imprisonment. A life sentence.
  • Blah.  Blah.
  • Love is the burning of one’s flesh into another so that they heal as one.   Conjoined.  Connected tissue, the amalgamation of blood, fluids uniting and cells evolving.

I am Cancer.  I live inside you.  A mutation of yourself.  Regeneration and renewal and replacement and then error error error error errorPlease accept my sincerest apologies but this cell doesn’t appear to be working anymore.  Please try again….never.  I was born when the bang went big, when C and E and two L’s became united and drafted their constitution.  We, the cells of the human body, in order to perform our duty, establish our birth from our own flesh and blood , ensure we replicate, provide sufficient numbers to be victorious over the non-mutated cells, promote our own demise and eventual death.  We, the cells of the human body, become cancer, we do not move on to another host when the current flesh is no longer viable, we stay, remaining. 

I am cancer, I am a part of you and I die with you.  That is my love.  Label me aggressive but only as an outstanding lover, a life partner, your soul mate.

  • Her love for him was impassioned.
  • It was demonic.
  • His was lacklustre.
  • One’s love cannot be compared to another’s.
  • We all love differently?
  • Yes.
  • No.
  • We are individuals.
  • Not when we love.
  • I retain my identity even when I am a lover.
  • The act of love is all about transformation.
  • Sometimes the lover wishes to change me.
  • The act of love is all about transformation.
  • Sometimes I feel that my lover wants to live inside me. Be me.  Alter my very make-up.
  • Evolve you.

Roughly five litres of blood run through a human body; many many cells, white, red, platelets, all entrusted with a specific job.  When in need I was your transfusion.  You weren’t looking.  You thought you didn’t need me but I was witness to your internal bleeding and I knew I had the answer.  I was the answer; just call me Platelet.  I flowed into your veins and was dispersed around your body, carrying the very air you breathed.  I became you.  You are me.  Entwined – our love glowed red.  As I travelled, exploring, a grand adventure of the inner workings of you, I detected the infectious disease and my fury raged a deathly white.  What was this illness, this vileness, this inconsistency – LIE – of the hippocampus? An enemy had invaded and tampered with you.  When, where, what poison was administered?

  • You cannot blame Glauce for wanting to look beautiful on her wedding day.
  • She was marrying a man who had already pledged his love to another.
  • Any bride would wear a beautiful gift.
  • She was poison, came from poison and died by its hand.
  • Medea killed her out of revenge.
  • It was borne from love.
  • A woman scorned…
  • She was much, much more.
  • You admire her?
  • She knew how to love.

Love is more than episodic events.  The hippocampus stores time-related memories.  Oh hackneyed phrase, but, we were not confined by time.  The temporal lobe of the neocortex is where we existed.  It was here that we processed mutual sensory input, creating a language only we could speak, numerous ways to say I love you, numerous derivations of what it meant to love, to be the recipient of love, to be the giver.

To give myself so freely.

This sole aspiration achieved.

To discover my soul is but a cell that needs to evolve.

To encompass you.

To ingest my own lover.

Become one.

Lip locked.  Chained.

The emerging double helix of us.

black tree

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