My body is sore. It has been prodded, pierced, invaded, photographed, enclosed and extracted from. It has been alarmed, shocked and frightened. And for nothing. And we have talked. We have been to the abyss. We have looked at death. We have visited it. I am numb. He is euphoric. At least he was. As they were. I cannot match it. I am numb. Lost. Still lost. It was a narrative I had accepted. I had accepted that my death was near. And now? It isn’t. So be it. I no longer know what you want of me. And my fear made me hurt him. I am ashamed. Deeply so. I need help but from whom. She was so wise, my beautiful love. People don’t want to go into that tunnel with you, she said. No, they don’t. And why should they? Why should she, she who is so vital, so full of vigour and hope? I must accept this, this life and make the best of it. And be kind. Oh, God make me kind. For I have not been so.

By Ellen Bell

Artist and writer currently living in Aberystwyth.