the air is made of rosemary and we pull.

i am dividing again. inside. outside. mind. body. it begins as flat affect. i described it to a therapist once as though the muscles in my face had atrophied. my inability to speak or produce facial expressions is a kind of paralysis, after the stroke. my voice softens, flattens, becomes smaller. i'm often asked to repeat myself, excruciating. to others i appear aloof or sullen. but i am trapped behind my own eyes, screaming, and the girl who has stolen my face and my voice doesn't let anyone hear.

everything aches. my skin has been removed and turned inside out and every breath is pain. a touch is brutal, deadly. i am reaching out with the force of my internal bleeding and at the same time i am pushing everyone away. finally i am forced to cry and, unbidden, the words come (uselessworthlessugly) and the scorn (please love me. i'm not worth loving). i am such a cliche; pounding.