Julianne’s Second Story
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Your fingernails are dirty and your lipstick has bled into the cracks around your mouth and your body smells like dying fish and sores are starting to fester.

It’s apparent you cut your hair yourself.

On the advice of your doctor, you’ve gone ahead and asked for something you want, but the tone of your voice betrays you and the words burble out willy-nilly.

So that’s enough you say.

I can’t stand up for myself.
I can’t speak in a crowd.
I’ve chewed the inside of my mouth raw, my teeth are ground to stubs, and now
I want someone to help me.
The boat has sailed, the library’s lent, the wolf’s at the door, and
visions of sugar plums dance in my head.

You are magnificent.

You are pathetic.