You are beautiful.

 

Nope, not right. 

​

You are strong. 

 

It sounds slighty better—more like something my mother would say. I should call her; it’s been three weeks since we spoke, but the thought of her voice, warm, soft, and inquisitive, would be unbearable this morning.

 

You are strong. 

 

I say it louder this time, but as I watch my chest rise and fall I can't help but count the number of ribs I can see. I am weak, but my mom is strong. In her free time she sits with random hospice patients because she firmly believes no one should die alone. It would kill her to know that her daughter sits alone and decomposing, too weak to walk to the bathroom, happy to let her body eat itself.  I'm proud I have the strength to keep this from her, but I am too weak to leave my bed today.