—AT TIMES I THINK WE’RE DRIFTERS, STILL SEARCHING FOR A FRIEND

 

 

In Her Skin

 

 

“You’ve stopped talking altogether,” I say. 

So, she points.

“It’s okay,” I say. “You can take the mask off now.” 

So, she points again. Where the ear straps once were, there are now twisted black barbs permanently stuck in her skin.

“If you love me, you’ll say something.”

She points to the top, bottom then the sides of the mask where those same spider barbs have been sewn deep in her skin.

“So, this is it?” I ask. “We’ll never speak again?”

            She points at the door, takes a watery step in that direction, then another and another until she floats through it, like gossamer, worn too thin to see.