Since it happened,
things so insignificant like her sleep,
like her daily cleansing, stupid showers,
yet so crucial,
have been transformed.
The drops of water soon became
hail
with steam overflowing,
flying up and staining the
mirrors—hot,
seizing any
cold air
coming in or out.
No refreshing. Only trapping.
Except the crack
below
the wooden edges of the door that
illuminates a
dark room,
peeping through like
Sun
Rays
amidst a storm.

Since it happened,
she does not allow
that sliver,
absence amidst the darkness, to exist
even as she sleeps at night.
Until she wakes up,
and her drapes
blind her with the light it does not cloak and
protect her from.
She knows it would help to close her eyes,
but her sleep
lacks the necessity,
yet overflows
with a cold and a darkness and a cold darkness that
envelopes her
all over—
because there is no warmth nor light in the comfort of her bed.

Since it happened,
her gates are always open, so people can
walk in and out, things travel—
her thoughts are always open,
her mind, her brain,
her heart
her feet
never stop,
except her lungs to trap air,
to breathe
and except her eyes
that are always shut to daylight of the sky.
Gateways to heaven.

Since it happened,
she has been changed,
now fearful.
Always
wondering
about pain
as a crucial doctor for her sickly patient,
Always
worrying about others,
like a parent for a child in need.
So when she cleans,
she cranks the heat up higher
and allows the needles to
hammer
against her body and burn her flesh when trying to wash
to compensate for the loss.
And she shuts
the blinds
in her room, so there is
a lack thereof,
and the light
dwindles.
She closes her eyes
to sleep, finally,
fearful of when waking up from this,
from this nightmare,
fearful to seize any cold or hot,
in daylight
or at night when the moon
shines.

And from the suffering
and compensation
of needles pricking her back and
thorns ripping her skin,
lies a dot of absence amidst the darkness
that indeed aids her and
guides her and
shines and
twinkles—
not below, but above.

So she can go through the opaque and
cloudless skies on her own,
without that hand to hold and that
arm to link,
a doctor to cure or a friend to aid,
yet something which is there to lay above.

So when she bends her neck back and looks up,
gazes at the black burden
above her,
she is comforted by the light hovering over.
She continues to poke holes in her skin,
scrape her flesh with her claws,
and the hail roughens,
but she enjoys that light above her,
whether a sliver or a sphere,
and hopes for more comfort
without the suffering,
with that hand to hold or that arm to link,
with a bridge to cross back to her past and
enjoy,
or to the future without suffering and
without nightmares.

So perhaps she can forgive
G-d above,
claim the soul above,
forget
the narrow coffin below
and forget her pain
and forgive herself
without the burden inside her.