For seven weeks, one by one, she cut her wrists into kites and string.
They decorated her remains with escape clauses and expiration dates, a row of arrows through the skin.
They asked for a warm body to replace a need elsewhere, a marker of muscle and a moistened gauze.
She gave me a reason. Leaves were parted to let the veins in.
I waited for her in a short cornered room, in between cabinets, crouching, listening. I was little more than a torso, with or without legs. At most an extra arm, shoulders and a patch of hair.
I caught them staring at a capillary and calling it a certain ripple, I saw a still life disappearing on the inner corner of each hand.
Six hours of slash and burn, six clinics, one back canopy, no one said your name. Jillison, not even once.
They put her on a saline drip and said she was starting to improve, stopped vomitting, started drinking water and milk. She showed a normal spinal curve for once.
Her waiting room was windowless, walls nearly invisible, as close as we could come to a non-zero recovery again.
They never say exactly what shame takes away from you, the landscape of anatomy that gets subtracted entirely.
A faceful of blowout fractures. A cavity in each cornea, irises resized by lack of light, same blank injuries for anyone to see.
She told them the clouds were broken ornaments without a box, they weren’t even close.
She said the sky was replaced by means of riot control, they threw it in a back room, probably burned it.
She said you can’t replace a black hole, when all you have is a body full of black holes.
Silver lining of a sudden vein. Just had to cut it cleanly, let it find it’s type.
They told me it was over, and I watched her.
Woke up to an empty waiting room, a blanket kite corpses covering the bed. I told myself not to forget and then I left a note for her instead
Jillison, the ripples on the mirror show up as shadows below your skin. I always thought if you left me and of course I hoped it would be then.