I try to define love. I try to define my body limits. I try to collect my parts.

Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night on my bed, with broken body parts, scattered, with glues and bandages. Keeping them close, wondering. Am I whole? When the time comes to restore me will I be able to recognize myself? If my right eye is missing how will I be able to see in three dimensions?

But then I breathe. I keep the stuff found on my bed. I try to pull the labels off. It hurts pulling  them off. Sometimes the flesh is detached as well. The blood spots the white sheet.

I see shadows. I’ve always thought of myself as an angel. But in these shadowed parts there is so much jealousy, fear, guilt. Maybe I am a monster after all. I breathe.

In this breath I find courage. A connection. I sense the beast sitting right next to me, breathing heavily. He whispers:

“love does not need a receiver, it is a state of being, not a afeeling. Who are you to own love. Who do you think you are? Stop being so selfish. Love is. You are lucky to share it if you have the guts to be free. Love is the opposite of fear, not hate. No love without  freedom”

Those nights next to the beast are many. Sleepless,  Counting fractions and decimals.

But then, a morning I wake up and for a brief shiny moment I am whole.