Acknowledging her inability to grasp the concept
that she is unclothed and unable
to defend even the smallest image of herself
the softest touch feels like clothespins
snapping and latching
bruising particular spots and inches of her body
swallowing herself in layers upon layers of clothes and blankets
praying that these pieces of soft, warm fabric will guard her
as if she wore a suit of steel armor
the house mirrors are covered with tattered sheets
she is in mourning
of the memory of unbroken skin and intact empathy
tossed and thrown out alongside the rest of the garbage
after they finished
crumpled under the covers, pretending to count sheep
Yikes (ouch). Your writing is beautiful, but quite breathtaking!
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