May cause drowsiness: day 13

Her mewl­ing babe nears forty years emerged from the womb. Kept and alive, but not kept. She kneels in the eye of the fam­ily mir­ror, under the accus­at­ive point­ing of the clock.

Girl turns to woman, but stores child-like rhymes in her head, stays sing-song under her breaths. Spreads brick red lip­stick care­lessly over her mouth, scratches dead skin from behind her left ear, catch­ing small flakes on her palm, examin­ing them for pat­terns of mean­ing. She wishes that each uncer­tain shape could map her exist­ence, her grow­ing. Brushes the remains of her­self away, agitated.

She is impa­tient for old age. She wants to dream of want­ing. Dresses for birth, dresses for rain, dresses for water engulf­ing her up to her waist. This body has worked against me, she thinks. Throws a last mur­der­ous glance to the mir­ror. This face has worked against me, it replies.