sjsprWriting

Original

She lets the hours go by like seconds, irate and rude as the ones who already see the galaxies in her eyes try to help her see them too. She locks the door and hides away, not even looking up to see that the sky that was once pristine is now swollen and as she bleeds, she feels the relief of a job well done, hours of scratching and bright lights as the tweezers, like missiles, break through her atmosphere, poking and prodding at every single star.

Change of narrator

I pass by her room, hearing the still quiet that seeps through the crack under her door. I turn the doorknob to find it locked, again, hearing only the roar of the air conditioner and the deep, punctured breaths she takes. I knock on her door, again, and as she opens it hastily, as if I’m interrupting something, I see the swollenness of the patches of her skin that she obsessively nicks and pricks at. I want to take her in my arms and tell her that she’s beautiful and perfect and yet she only seems to be happy when she bleeds. I get a few sharp words and a deep sigh, followed by the breeze of the door right before it closes in front of me. Hours go by and there’s only silence, yet I can hear every scratch in my mind like missiles scraping at the atmosphere.