She peels her skin at seven in the morning.
“Let it be,” he said. “What harm can it do?”
Both knew that she wouldn’t listen.
that would be preposterous to say.
She always listened.
It would be a crime to say that she didn’t.
She was the empty paper which would let you write on her.
But she never obeyed.
The paper is blank again…
Crumpled, it lay around her.
She makes little mounds of the dead skin.
It peels off easily.
Chemicals which burned her had already left half her face hanging.
The next layer is tricky.
One can’t know whether its skin or just sewer crap.
“It’s my own fault.”
She feels cool when she is caressed by the vapors.
What is left are stitched rags of prison created by her parents and her childhood — which she loves but has to loathe.
What did they think?
She will embrace their anger and failures so that her life could be wasted fulfilling their failed dreams and borrowed expectations?
That she will live the tar they blow into her lungs?
That she will live chocking?
Their stitched-up prison will never wrap her in her grave.
When the rags are burned away,
He cannot see her anymore,
And she knew she was free.
She hopes to see him invisible too.
She knows he dreams of it.
She feels he will find his emptiness —
that he will go back to his source.
Everyone will eventually find the vessel which is them,
And be free of the shit which it is filled with now.
But she will not wait;
It’s been too long.
Let others take their time.
And as for her,
She is Freedom already.