Day 8

And just like that, it is gone, vanished, burned up and released into the air like ash.

I'm left standing in the kitchen. There are broken plates shattered around me. Glass crunching under my bare feet. There must be blood, I think, but I don't examine too closely and I certainly feel no pain. Not in my bloodied feet, not in the skin pierced by shattered jagged edges shards of our former life, the possibility of a life, shattered.

You're a Phoenix, I tell my invisible self in the mirror that I hate. You will rise up from these ashes.

And I do, and I will, over and over, and over and over. But each time, there is something lost. And maybe something gained? How to know?