The blankets engulf her,
wrapping around her fragile self—
Her temperature dropping
smooth like paper:
The map to her life that is stretched across her face
lacks the chiseled ridges of laugh lines.
She turns to her side
and swallows the nails to her coffin.
She lies there—
lonely and abandoned
in the endless rocking of an unchartered ocean.
Two feet on hardwood;
Two hands lifting the Shasrara.
reaching for the broken glass above the vanity.
Her fingers trace the shape of her jawline
and pulls the reflection towards her.
What’s this? she thinks.
This tingling sensation—
it erupts and she basks in the warmth while
her Other steps into the hollow shell of bone and skin.
“Today,” she says,
“is not so bad.”