He* is a thief.
Just a thief of hope and faith.
Against all facts, against all favorable circumstances, he finds his way in.
Like a monkey on my back or a deep sense of nausea in my gut.
Why does he have to steal even just the hope away? Haven’t we all been through enough already?
I know this time – this sixth time – is different. But it doesn’t feel different.
And I hate that.
I hate that my heart can’t just rest on hope; I hate that the facts aren’t enough. The fact that my new eggs are full of youth and fertility.
Ugh, fear and doubt. They’re ugly.
I hate him. This thief has taken too much from me already.