Again

Dear God,
It's been one year and eleven months.
Why are there moments that are still so terrifying?

Dear God,
I worry that one day I will be ninety-four and will slip into a hazy confusion where time loops back on itself and I will exist, to my last days, in my twenty-eighth year of life, holding a crying baby, forgetting to eat, not remembering how to sleep.
I will always carry that twenty-eight year old in my stomach. My stomach, not my heart at all. There is no pain in my ribs, only in the place where a baby curls.

Dear God,
What is this healing that leaves such weeping sores? Such easy exit ramps to hell? I am so tired of being afraid. When do I get to remember how to taste again, sleep again? When do I stop clinging to anything beautiful, like a drowning girl, and take things for granted again?

Dear God,
Why do I feel your breath on my face? Even now? Even here? On my lonely lips and cold cheeks.

Dear God,
Do you remember having skin? Do you remember how it felt to feel the world through nerves and tissue and cells? Do you remember what it felt like to live here in this mess, or is it only a ghost of a memory?

Dear God,
I am so changed. I do not own my skin anymore. Would you buy it back for me? I have no money of my own.

Dear God,
I have no more words. Only tired tears that do not worry about scarcity.

Oh, my God. Come in. Come in.