Death by bite marks

The verdict came and went,
struck like fateful lightning and with it took chunks of identity,
gulping down ovaries, knees, colon, eyes and teeth
like a famished hound waiting to pound once more on flesh and heart and soul.
Made sure to bellow its name so that it would ring in my ears a thousand times a thousand,
and a thousand times a thousand,
and a thousand times a thousand,
long after it had struck,
so that I would die a thousand small deaths every day
in its wake.

So now, I am cursed and I die,
again and again,
The same deaths and new ones,
again and again,
I rage and cry out,
again and again,
I am restless and yearnful,
again and again,
A thousand times a thousand,
again and again,
and again.

I die.

I die when, before my usual summer walk in the park, I now have to pass the sweets aisle in the grocery store—no more ice cream for you, or else you’ll be inflamed for the next two weeks.
I die when old cafés and casual meeting spots become painful mementos of dear memories locked away for ever, to be revisited only through thoughts and pictures—you now have dietary restrictions, remember?
I die when I go from being low maintenance to having to bring my own food at family events—no more gluten, dairy, or anything else worth savouring for you; oh, and no more feelings of belonging.

I die when I cannot trust my body to know how to fall—that knee of yours is no longer a pillar of security.
I die when I go sledding and only slide downhill once for old times’ sake—can’t risk it with my meniscus lesions now.
I die when I can’t throw caution to the wind anymore and frolic without a second thought, even though the cornflower field is right there.

I die when my brother now carries my backpack on hikes—that sciatic nerve will never shut up again.
I die when I now have to cherry pick hikes depending on the symptoms nagging me.
I die in anticipation of the day when this little pocket of sunshine and freedom will be gone forever.

I die when I look back at photos from 2023—when I had only the burden of mental illness to carry.
I die when photos from January 2024 pop up—the last time I ever felt at home in my body,
Before I fell down this rabbit hole of life sentences that I can’t seem to crawl my way out of.

I die when I have yet another doctor’s appointment and have to start over with my medical history, again and again,
“Hi, hello, nice to meet you, my name’s Burden, here’s five folders of complicated past and present, all labelled by the impacted body part, and in chronological order. Where to now?”.

I die when I think about my progressive chronic condition biting into every letter of my name,
While I grip them tightly against my chest,
But my nails are brittle. And weak.
and I die,
bite marks all over me.

Granted, I started with twenty-two letters to my name,
plenty, you would think,
but they are lines and curves and strokes which I don’t want to give up gradually,
No, not even an inch.
I’d always imagined they would all go at once,
but alas,
I have been cursed with a slow death,
no matter how much I’d wished to be swallowed whole.
These letters of mine were meant to be cursive, flowing, growing, vivacious, audacious,
shaped by all that is beauty, and sensitivity, and adventure (and a few mild speed bumps here and there).
So, tell me, why are they now only dull hieroglyphs in doctors’ notes,
roadblocks keeping me from sanity,
gathering dust, and rage, and trauma?

So, I die,
again and again,
a thousand times a thousand,
though there are only 86,400 seconds in a day.

For what else was I born for, if not to die?