Dissociate, staring at a face in a puddle. Raindrops creating ripples. Perhaps that’s why I don’t recognise the reflection.
The more I stare, the less familiar.
Exhausted, empty eyeballs, sunken into a shell of a skull. Deep lines around the miscarried mouth, mapping its agony.
Drops in the puddle, distorting the street lights. Bloodied knees with scrapes full of grit, increasing the pressure because that pain is light relief from the torture I’m used to.
Do I really look like that or is it just the rain in my eyes, contorting my perception?
It falls heavier now.
I turn to look up and watch it tumbling onto me and realise it isn’t raining at all. They were my tears.