I wish I could explain it.
The barred windows. The white tennis shoes. How I wake sometimes and my nose still stings from the cleaning products. There are no words. I trained my tongue to make the sound of those bedsheets; how they crinkled like paper and rubbed the skin raw. No one understood it; they laughed like it was a sick joke.
I guess it was a sick joke.
They asked me why I wrote about rag dolls. It was easier than saying I was broken. That he broke me. That he reassembled my parts wrong, put my hands on backwards. That it got so lonely not being able to hold onto something. That it was easier to let go.
They said, there now, the poison’s gone.
They said, you are better now.
Sometimes I close my eyes really tight. Sometimes I can still finger that blood moon. It was begging for trouble, calling the tides of my body to move away, reminding me that I was cold, and onyx, and strange.
I try to talk about the hospital. My mouth fills with consonants. It gets too hard to move my lips. I smile instead. Stop the crackling. And the rustling. And the shifting.
There is no blood moon.
The poison’s gone.
I’m better now.