Bellies

by Nicola Dinan

never really thought about the cost dying would entail, the loss of the years I could’ve lived. The worries were primal. The bog standard I Don’t Want To Die coded into my amygdala. But now when I think about death, I think about the things I wouldn’t get to do, the things I want to do, the people I want to kiss and fuck but whose faces I’ve yet to see, the things I’ve yet to write. It’s not so much dying that scares me, but dying young, because in a lot of ways life has only just begun to feel like it’s worth living. I’m catching up. I’m only just learning what it means to want to live. Nobody should die young. My mind doesn’t go in circles like before, but sometimes I can’t help but be careful. I take extra care when I’m crossing the road. I walk slowly down the stairs if I’m in heels. I’m aware that none of this squares with the smoking, but some risks feel less real.