By Sonam Kaloti, Arts Editor
Started seeing everything in green light.
Ripped the skin off my face for hours
in the washroom
mirror. Felt like a zombie:
telling myself to stop but my body
wouldn’t respond.
Burned my face from peeling skin.
“What have I done?”
Breakdown.
Spoke to myself like a conversation
between two people:
one a crying wreck
and a motherly figure
hesitatingly trying to configure
comfort in dismay.
“Shh, it’s okay.
Don’t cry. We’re okay.”
