"The joints in my feet pop and crackle as they make contact with the blue, itchy carpet. The weight of my bones pushes my body into place, forcing me to embrace the vertical. It’s not an easy transition, but then again, perhaps I’m not used to the blood rushing to my head like that.
Steadying myself, I approach the chest of drawers opposite my queen-sized bed and beginning riffling through the top draw for underwear. Opening the draw first thing in the morning feels like open-heart surgery: exposing the tangled mess of colourful knickers, my steady hand carefully removes the correct pair.
My room is neither small nor large, but rather an intricate puzzle of ‘identity pieces’ - read as a whole, they create the illusion of Jo, of who I am. It sounds a bit wanky to talk about myself as a conglomerate of pieces, or even as an illusion, but since her death that’s how I’ve felt…bitsy…jarred…or any number of words that equate to ‘somewhat lacking’. The trinkets of interest I choose to coexist with pale in comparison to the shit storm that’s brewing in my heart.”
© Marion Piper, 2013.