Stingrays.
In my eyes, stingrays.
Stabbing me under droopy lids,
splashing salty water over my pupils.
A shaky voice,

a whispered “I’m sorry,”
footsteps on the stairs,
escaping,
a door thunders closed from a hand—
Was that my hand?
Cold, bloody hand,
monster hand,
dry, cracked, throat-grabbing hand—
Was that my hand?

How did I get here?
Cold tiles all around,
all alone,
cold tiles freeze my feet to match frozen oceans—
my heart.
A small window, yes,
look outside.
Whirling wind, unsteady wind,
angry, hurt wind;
or is that just my breath?
A cry through blood-red lips,
a wordless cry,
wordless wind to match wordless sorrow.
Raindrops take their place upon my warm cheeks,
dancing down their streams as always.

A whirlpool takes my head,
my brain, my vision, all rationality—
gone into a whirlpool.
I’m spinning,
not sure which way is up or which way is down,
but I feel cold tiles on my back, my face, my heart…
must be down.
I raise my weapon and begin to fight:
blue ink smears across crisp white paper,
I don’t know what I’m writing—
I can’t tell yet—
an apology letter, a poem, both?
I bleed blue ink on the crisp white paper.
Words take form,
head still whirling,
tears still dancing,
wind still crying…
stingrays in my eyes like they belong.

I see words now:
“I’m sorry I’m not perfect.”
Crumple it up. Throw it away.
Move on.
Water runs—
down my face, outside, everywhere I turn.
Drown myself in it…
can’t breathe, don’t care—
gasping for air assures me I’m alive.
Big girls don’t cry,
mamma says it’s weak;
mamma says…mamma says…
I get paranoid now.
Outside the door, a noise, a voice!
They’re watching me.
My whirlpool brain spits emotions,
the mirror reflects them playing across my red face.
Anger, for they are intruders.
Fear; they will see I am weak…
Happy; maybe they care.
The door thunders open from a cold hand,
monster hand
(is that my hand?),
no one there but the stingrays under my lids.
Indifference, I don’t care.

I grasp my blade yet again,
send ink running onto crisp white paper.
Tears begin dancing on the page—
my cheeks are free.
Slowly, slowly,
the tornado stops…
I can see which way is up.
Good sign.
Blood begins to wash off my monster hand,
soft fingertips return under unpolished nails.

Frozen oceans start to thaw—
maybe in a year or two,
they will be warm.