She walks like a woman afraid, her skin is pale and mottled with scars and her eyes are down except when they are up and angry and they are always angry. My name in her mouth is just one more step in a litany, to give me grace is to forgive them all and what have we done to her, or, good lord, what haven’t we? We have lured the stitches up from her arms, we have leaned in close and felt her hair on her cheek. How cruel I was, to fall in love with the image of myself in negative

Scattered thoughts, and at a great distance. Guilt is a ribbon, and you are a bow.