The 5 Stages of Mitosis


Preceding metaphase is a period called prometaphase, during which the membrane, or nuclear envelope, surrounding the chromosomes breaks down, allowing the condensed chromosomes to come into direct contact with... Because they are condensed, they move more easily without becoming tangled.

You try to make up reasons for him to stay. Imagine yourself hiding away his clothing and shoes, locking the doors throwing away the keys and winding the clock backwards for an hour then two and three...

You cover him in layers and layers of blankets, trying to trap him in bed sheets, between cotton and nylon and wrap every corner and inch of his body with your limbs and fingertips and spin him in your cobwebs of lies. Suffocating, disorientating, addicting.

You wrap around him, lending him your body through the sheets, merging cells, mixing blood, sharing skin and bones. And for a moment, just for a moment, you imagine becoming one. Crawling inside his heart, lungs, kidney, liver, spleen, brain anything and everything so without you he couldn't live. Wouldn't leave.

Yet he cuts through the aorta, pulls apart the seams and leaves. Awkwardly, slowly, painfully... And while he does, you imagine yourself begging and praying and promising, yet instead you shut down this failing lifeline and yourself behind your eyelids and pretend to be asleep instead of dead.


When you open your eyes to the empty room, you wonder, if it was even worth it. And every blink and breath and the wheeze of your heart feels like such a chore. You wish you were dead but then your chest heaves and your body aches and you know that you're not. So you take trembling inhales and exhales just for one more second, minute, hour, day, year with hope that he will come back that he will be yours. That the next time you open your eyes he will be there, good to stay. And the bed will stay warm and you'll be full like an overflowing sink and his scent will get stuck in your thorax, enveloping your lungs like pleurae, instead of lining your pillowcases and fading away. Because this way, this way, you'll be able to breathe him in for eternity and you won't have to breathe him out ever again. You live each day a life that is not yours and is not worth living.


It wasn't always like this. No. You used to be a happy 3 am lover. Stolen kisses, stolen glances and awkwardly fast gropes with hands wandering from neck to chest, stomach thighs and folding into the hollows of bony shoulder blades. Hurry,hurry. Always in a rush, with no time for anything. Never staying, never lingering as though never there. Ghost touch, ghost boys, ghost love. No time.

Secret, secret. Whispering at ungodly hours in and out off his bed, claiming only bruised lips but by the morning even the red and the taste will fade.

Lying, lying. Never forget to look them straight in the eyes. He taught you how, when you were kids and you broke your leg falling from his roof playing with paper airplanes. He showed you how, when everyone found out that you were different and put you inside the garbage container, even though it was 30 °C out and you suffocated, rotted in there for hours in your own vomit, piss and blood from torn fingernails, trying to scratch holes in plastic walls or was it plastic hearts.

Crying, crying because he watched, he just stood there and watched, when they put you down, when they razed you to the ground, when your world, his words, your love turned out to be a lie.

Praying, praying and suffocating and dying then pretending to forget everything and anything and him because... He... You... Wouldn't hold him the same, couldn't kiss him the same, wouldn't ever breathe, eat sleep exist the same.

No. It wasn't always like this. Because once you used to be happy. You used to be happy, when the world wasn't a dirty place to live in.


"I'm sorry Lees, I'm sorry. Oh God I'm, I'm..."

You tried to purge yourself with bleach. But they didn't get it. They didn't get that you were trying to drink him out of your head. Just pinched your nose and burned your throat and didn't spit out the blood, didn't let them open your mouth and bit at helping hands and fingers. They thought you were trying to end yourself. And maybe you did. And maybe you'll do it again, to hear him weeping and begging and kneeling.

"I'm sorry Lees, I'm sorry. Oh God I'm, I'm..."

You were not.


You laughed, when your therapist asked you about love. You laughed loud and ugly. And then you told him, as it is. You told him that;

Love is a disease. It's ugly, violent and gluttonous. It makes you blind, it leaves you stupid, helpless and dependent. It demands a change.It does not ask. It takes. And contrary to popular belief it does not give. It does NOT give.

Love is death. It is hateful and merciless. It's the cancer. The one that eats at you from the inside. Swallows you whole and doesn't even leave bones.

Love is guilt. Because you always could have, should have but didn't.

Love is pain. Constant, nagging, debilitating and even morphine can't lessen it.

Love is suffering, suffocating. A constant feeling of claustrophobia. A leash. You can't take steps forward, you can't take them back nor aside. Your are permenently stuck.

Love is a disappointment. It never does live up to the expectations.

Love is Live Out Vile Existence.

Love is something you wish you were born without.