She crosses her legs,
one leg over the other,
dividing the dressing gown,
her foot dangling,
the pink slipper,
half hanging there.

The ward light
has no shade,
the light is naked
and bare and bright.

She gazes
at her reflection
in the window pane;
outside the darkness
of late evening.

I sit beside her;
we are both
in the frame
of the window pane.

I heard of your
latest drama,
she says,
had the nurses
rushing around
like headless hens.  

You know
how it gets you.

There's always
a different door,
the quack told me.

What's he know,
except what he's ******
from books?

These
are my dumb medals.

She shows me
her scars;
they are like bracelets
around her wrists
and along her arm.

Where'd you get
the cord?
she asks.

Framer had one
on his dressing gown;
they never
checked him.

Heads will roll.

Almost did it,
I say,
looking at the guy
looking at me.

So I thought
when I sliced
into my flesh
last time;
matter of time
I told the quack;
he wasn’t impressed.

I take her hand
and run a finger
along the scars.

Smooth, soft,
pinkie-white,
whiter than the rest.

She uncrosses her legs,
then crosses them again,
different leg over,
foot dangling,
slipper stained by blood
hanging half off.

Who are they?
Yiska asks
pointing to
the two reflected images
gazing back at us,
male and female.

Poor sods,
like Dante's souls
in the Second Circle,
I say.

She turns her head;
the female image
before us
turns away.

"I have been clean for three weeks, now," I say. She looks up, stares for a long time. I try to hide my fear behind exhaustion. I don't want her to know how bad it used to get. How bad I needed to let go. How hard it was for me to do so. How, sometimes, the pull is there, just on the side of my brain, whispering, urging me to follow it, upstream, where the tumbled thoughts drown me.
"I'm proud of you", she says. I want to say thank you very much, it means a lot. Instead, I close my eyes against the pain in my heart. My shoulders sag and my features crumble. I wish I'm proud of you were the words I wanted to hear. They're not.
I love you, are the words I need. The words you left out my front porch, where the prints of your loafers are still embedded in my memories. I sniffle and take a breath. I have been clean for three weeks and you will not invade my mind once again. Letting you roam my thoughts again would destroy me this time around. I breathe and appraise myself.
"Thanks. Want to get some ice cream?"
"Sure. I'm paying", she stands up and pulls me up. This is what I need. Someone to pull me up. So I let myself smile, let her swipe away my tears, and let her bottle you inside once again. The smile gets bigger, and my taste buds sparkle.
"There, I'd almost missed this", she says.
"Missed what?" I manage to pronounce around a mouthful.
"You. This is who you are, Mary. You are strong. Funny. Incredible. This is who you are."
"I'd lost myself for a while, I think", I say slowly. She nods. She understands. "Thank you for saving me, Jul', it means a lot."
The words lift my chest higher than clouds, and my breath is light with freedom.
This is who I am.

Run away with my words,
transform yours into something new.

I trust not in the Lord when I do this to you.
I trust in myself, to get what I want.
I trust in myself my desires I'll flaunt.

I am no good, unless I'm good.
That I can admit.
I am no good to anyone else,
unless I can quit.

I am good enough,
I was put here afterall.
For some sort of purpose.
For some sort of call.

Don't tell me I am beautiful
unless you have seen my soul.
Don't tell me I am beautiful
unless you have touched the dark corners of my mind.
Don't tell me I am beautiful
unless you have brushed against my scars without me flinching.
Don't tell me I am beautiful
unless you can see me for more than my ****** structure and pretty eyes.
Don't tell me I am beautiful
unless you are willing to sit up with me while I cry in the night, it will happen.
Don't Don't Don't tell me I am beautiful
unless you see me for who I really am under my mask.