women in hospital realize
they've lost the pageant -
not of beauty but of mind.
it's not even in the hospital
but in hospital because i've
been there so much of my
fucking life i know the nurses
by name. they've seen
my scarred breasts and the
way my legs look unshaven
after weeks spent in bed,
sleeping because i want
to be back in the womb
and this is the closest i'm
going to get, with plastic
crackling every time i
try to ease to ache of
my limbs by turning over.

sometimes when i'm there
i want to feel something
other than my fists
grinding into my face or
my nails trying to sink their
way into my bones (i remember
shauna's raw wrist after she
came back from the hospital, her
freckles standing out sharply in
her face. i had so wanted to suck
that wrist and taste the inside of her)
i turn out the lights,
certain there are cameras
lodged in the ceiling, turning
this way and that, watching
me on my knees.
i masturbate in the dark,
hearing the sound of
a shower going on and on
next door, the tiles
rough and cold against my
bare legs (with
my underwear somewhere
around my ankles).
i don't even notice when i come
because the pills i take every night
and every morning have stolen
it from me.

the walls are so white. they
hold in the screams. when
i see a girl pass by the window
facing outside she
can't see me but i can see her
bare arms and they're smooth
(i can feel my lips passing
over them, taking in
unmarred flesh that tastes
of sweat and salt and her).
the false blush she wears
looks powdery. the only one
who wears makeup
in hospital is the crossdresser.
he looks out at us from underneath
blue eyeshadowed lids that must
want to close. his red mouth
seems too small in his face.
the rest of us have given up.
even getting out of bed is a chore.
the wands and brushes
we wield so effortlessly outside
seem like complex tools
used for building. but anne told me
suicides don't build,
they don't even think of it.

the day before i'm set to leave
i shave my legs and nick myself
twice. the blood runs down warm
and the nurse tells me i did it
on purpose. i only stare at the
redness of it and think of the thousands
of others staring at the same sight,
getting ready to start their day,
saying fuck underneath their breath.

as the nurse takes the razor out of
my numb hand i think of the others
who are in bed with unshaven legs
and who aren't going to get up
until the groups are over and the
doctors have gone home.

i think of the women who have already
put iodine on their nicked legs
and who are smoothing their hands
over their skirt or slacks and
looking themselves in the eye in the mirror.

i don't know which group i belong to.
i want both of them.

i can almost taste success even as
i crawl back into bed and feel the ache of

my wounds.