The 5 Stages of Mitosis


During anaphase, the pairs of chromosomes are drawn to opposite poles of the elongated cell. Therefore, duplicate copies of the cell's DNA are now on either side of the cell and are ready to divide completely.

So forgive and forget they say. But it's hard when you miss him like a phantom limb. And it's not the arm or the leg that you're missing. It's not even the heart. It's your whole being that feels amputated. It's achy, it's burning and unfair. Because you would've given them everything; your eyes, your ears, arms and legs, each strand of your hair, yourself... Instead they took him away. So at night, when your spinal cord and brain rewire time and again and lose signals of the shape of his nose when it traced your jawline, the smell of his skin, of heat and salt, the feel of his laughter vibrating up and down your 31 spinal segments , you wake up bleeding screams and tears. And instead of bony hands and knobbly knees, you feel four plastic walls, and you smell and taste garbage. Every night, on repeat, you're getting berried wrapped in garbage bags in the plastic container.


Everything has a structure.

There are 206 bones, about 700 muscles, 1320 tendons, 60,000 miles of blood vessels through which the heart pumps blood, approximately 300 million capillaries and billions or neurons in the human body.

There are 150 floorboards, double the gaps, four walls, one ceiling, one window, door, one bed with a bed sheet, blanket and two pillowcases in the room.

And then there is a 12 step program that you begin with: "My name is Lees Nilsson and I'm addicted to James Wyatt."

Everything has a structure that you build up before destroying it.


Dear... Dear... Dear...

At the beginning it is hard. Every day feels like you're trying to struggle out of your too small skin. Uncomfortable, unmanageable, unlivable, unlovable, suffocating, nauseous, dying. You think you are dying. But is it worth living? Is it worth living without him?

Please, please, please...

You worshiped him like a God. You build him a shrine from the bones of your rib cage and consecrated it with the blood from you heart. You loved him like the sun, devoted yourself like a dog... To his each and every eyelash, the knots of bones on his hands and freckle constellations on his back, the awkward painful smiles and too big shoes. His eyes, his nose, his mouth, and funny shaped ears...And here you are now! And here you are now... Struggling through days, not sleeping or eating, hardly breathing through endless panic electrocuting your tired, weary body. Shocked, unstable, disabled... Bursting at the seams. Leaking, overflowing and drowning... Giving up... Giving out...

Why... why... why... why!?

You feel insignificant, unwanted. Nothing belonged to you in this world and you didn't belong. You feel lost. You ask God time and again; why had you met? Begin your days with Dear Lord and Hail Mary and end it with amen. You pray and plead, beg, threaten and break down, yet there's no answer to come. There's only constant, lonely and silent;



Like every addict you relapse. You yearn and search for him in familiar faces, familiar places, and strangers beds. And once or twice you think, you find him; in every awkward smile, warm touch, stray curl or a crooked nose. But then you look again, look back, and there's nothing more than nostalgic echoes. Just ghosts, shadows and delusions.

You try to heal yourself with dusters, vacuums and sponges, with new white sheets and mops, with liquids, powders, sprays, or granules. Yet he is nor dust nor stains. He is the mold; small, simple structured organism so dangerous and deadly to leave you poisoned and infected, wounded, scarred from top to bottom, from inside to the outside. Fucked for life. Fucked over twice. And there is going to be a third time. You swear you'll try to scratch your way back in to his house and heart again, unless you'll let yourself out of this cage.


You do regret it as soon as he pushes with his wheelchair through your door. Wild eyed, terrified and red cheeked. Just like the night when you first kissed. You regret the vodka and the bleach when he feeds you promises of happy endings or beginnings. Empty promises of love, together and forever. You do regret it, because you can not forget, because maybe, just maybe, third time was supposed to be your charm. And you still want, to promise to wait for him forever; to not eat or sleep or even breathe again for as long as it takes, if he just comes back. It doesn't matter;healthy, crippled, ugly or pretty just comes back. Yet instead you spit out blood and taste red. And this time, this time for sure, you'll forgive, but won't forget.