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I sometimes imagine her locked up. The image frightens me. In the dead middle of the square room, a white room, she sits, Indian style, arms crossed. She wears only white. The straight jacket that holds her arms clutching herself is stained with drool. Her dark skin turns pale from never seeing the sunlight. Her dark, frizzy hair swings wildly as she trashes her head about. Her cries bounce off the soft walls, lost within them; no one hears her pleas. She doesn’t understand why people antagonize her and she shrieks out for an understanding, spiritually enlightened being to recognize her innocent corpse, to befriend it and free it.
The already present bags under her eyes deepen and darken as she spends sleepless nights crying out, mad. The brown in her eyes seem to have darkened to black. The bloodshot red of her eyes stain the white of this room. The eyes are the windows to the soul: her eyes project the deep emptiness of hers. She belongs there.





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