The 5 Stages of Mitosis


In the phase to follow, called prophase, the duplicated chromosomes from the previous phase condense, meaning they become compacted and more tightly wound.

One bad night you find him in the same kitchen garden curled around the tomato and pea vines; knees to chest all sharp bones stuck in awkward angles, head swallowed by pointy elbows brown curls dripping through like weeds from dirt. There's soil and grass growing in patches tearing through clothing their way into his skin. There's a broken wheelchair a broken body a broken boy but it's the dirt that you want to fix.

So when he moves you don't try to stitch the broken pieces, you don't even try to hold onto them...

"So fucking stupid. Why'd you jump?"

You tear the tendons even deeper because he doesn't deserve to beg for you to let him back in. He doesn't deserve to beg...

Because he is so fucking deep in that you'll do just about anything to get him out.


Do you love him Jamie? Do you love him? That's not normal Jamie. I saw you Jamie! Nobody loves you like I do? Right? Nobody knows what's best for you, right? So don't you love him anymore! Don't go near him anymore! You are such an ungrateful boy. You hear me! I live just for you, so you can't love him Jamie. Or else...


He doesn't answer. You don't expect him to. Not really, no... It is better this way. Easier, to leave. Step by step. Whisper quietly yourself away... As if you were never there. But don't abandon him, cause with every bend of your knee, every slap of a heel every arc of toes your heart echoes his, pulling and tugging and thumping; go back, back, back, back... Go, go, back, back. And so you go, leaving nine footprints forward and ten back. Cause you just as well would do about anything to get him back.


And so you try. And you're not gentle, nor kind or caring. Because you don't want love. Not anymore. You just want him to be clean.

With movements so harsh and vicious to the point of violence, you uproot him from his bed of dirt and weeds. By the arms, hands and fingers, by the head and sometimes the hair, you drag. Inch by inch, breath by breath, stumbling and straining and tumbling down. Ripped jeans, ripped knees, ripped screams. On all fours, you scratch your way home and scrub him clean. Behind the ears, in between ribs and the hollow of his collarbones. Down the sternum and around the knots of the spine, past the dimples of the hips and the holey pockets in between toes... You rub and grind and wear through... Until there's nothing left. No dirt, no past, no memories, nor expectations just here and now. Just now... Just white again...

And when you're finally done, you build him a shelter of sheets, to hide him away from this world. Gently... Lovingly... So he wouldn't want to leave.

Not by force but by choice...

No, you don't want love. You pray for addiction.


He sleeps like the dead while she comes like the plague; screaming and raving and trying to break in. She comes jealous and loud, ready to mark and posses, yet he sleeps. Sleeps through the sirens and alarms and 28 door slams...In her face. Yes, he sleeps...

He sleeps with his limbs all over the place; they twitch feverishly with every breath he takes. And it's a dangerous game that you're playing; tucking them gently in symmetric vectors: lining together elbows and ribs, fingertips and hips, both kneecaps and then heels.

He sleeps like a kid, with his heart on his sleeves, mouth slightly parted, whispering dreams in exhales as you hum him lullabies of promises to patch up his threadbare clothing.

Yes, he sleeps... And his hair curls around your pillow, as you curve around him, just as lovingly, as tightly, so that his body, even his bones, take the shape of yours.


You wake up with a fist in your mouth and a bloody nose. You wake up with a bite, that leaves you wanting to pull all of his teeth right out. You wake up to the hurting and the bruising, shrieking and weeping and red. Red red stains on your white bed sheets.

And just for that, you want to tear him apart. And just for that, with tangles in your heart, you're not sure if he deserves you. And it burns. This helplessness, this violent taste of rejection. It burns, so you hit back. Slap him once, then twice and thrice with your lips and teeth and marvel how your marks of love and hate belong on his skin. How your mouths fit perfectly for that one breath, one heartbeat of two bodies, tangled together. Marvel how he folds into you, as if cold, how you crawl into his chest and build a house inside his rib cage. Marvel how he finally knows, where he belongs... Where you belong... Somewhere in between lungs and heart... He finally knows...

Oh love, so beautiful, yet so fucking ugly... All pink and wild eyed and terrified and yours. Just yours...