4:43 a.m.

Lights slowly begin to flicker, like lights on a birthday cake. Each light ignites warmth into the sharp edges of the city. My chest heaves upwards, pulled by the invisible strings of insomnia.

I count the prisms, a sea of rectangles–endless rows of glass and bulbous concrete blocks. As soon as I lose count, my eyes dart upwards to the edges of the sky for reprieve.

I think of him, in that moment. His laughter crackling like pine needles beneath my feet, the scent of earth lingering beneath his fingernails. I hear the blankets shuffle in the next room, and I blow out the imaginary candles and make a wish.

Thank you, universe.

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Liminal

I gazed intently at the water stains on the shower curtain, connecting ivory scuffs together as if they were constellations in an unknown galaxy. My flesh felt raw in the substantial heat of the water, but I welcomed the stinging sensation as if it were an old friend I hadn’t seen in a while.

The rounded curve of my belly, now too vast to be submerged, positioned itself like a stubborn island in the centre of the bathtub. I was actively avoiding studying the new lines and softened edges of my body as I had been doing intently for the past few weeks; the new landscape of my body continues to conjure up a series of emotions that become tangled in my consciousness like a thick mop of hair.

Liminal.

A new word I discovered that seems to summarize my thoughts and emotions this past week. It means “occupying a position at, or on both sides of, a boundary or threshold.”

I feel both in awe and disgust of my own body–a sense of self-loathing and undeniable sympathy for the changes that are taking place on a physical and emotional level.

Pregnancy truly is a limbo of sorts. A space that neither exists here nor there–a haphazard sludge of thoughts and feelings that make it far too viscous to tread through properly.

Quicksand.

I shift my thoughts back to the water marks faintly etched into the lining of the curtain and continue to search for meaning where there is none.