I’m paralysed.

It’s the slap in the face I can’t quite remember, but the blood clawing through to the surface of my skin begs me to never forget.
It’s the cool whip of air that feels like daggers tracing my body, mocking acupuncture treatment.
It’s the strands of hair, descendants of Medusa’s snakes, that threaten to reach into my throat and wrap my lungs.

But I'm waiting for the moment after.

When I can touch palm to cheek, and caress the wound with a simple upturn of lips
When I can take a step back, out of reach from the outstretched weapons of murderers and into the arms of my sisters
When I can shave to beautiful baldness and pull the wraps loose to look like oversized sweaters

I can wait