no blankets

the plaster on her index finger

is a clasp of smoke

a familiar scent of

settling calmness;

an aftermath of an aftermath

when pain no longer feels like pain

but a habitual routine

of sleeping without blankets

because they no longer hold protection.

there are pieces of leftover thread

from attempts to

sew herself whole

a 1000 bruises beneath her spine

the cause and effect of

straightening herself out.

the flamboyant scars etched like artwork

but she feels bland like paper

but bland is better

for one night of nothing is heaven

considering the other 364 waking nightmares

she now knows by heart

and can tell you how many times

she will scream the following night

muted.muted.

an explosive mind.

there are pieces of leftover thread

from attempts to

sew herself whole

but the neat lines of

her self-perfection

are nowhere insight.