She Wasn't Born This WayShe Wasn't Born This WayMore Like This
You never mention the word "disorder" in certain company.
That's a defense mechanism, rewriting song lyrics in my head as the uncomfortable silence drags on. Not that it's really silent, ever, in a hospital. Machines whir in the background like insect hives, nurses flit (or stomp, depending on inclination) from bed to bed, and some janitor or orderly inevitably rattles by the room with a bucket of vomit or cart of soiled bedding.
So not quiet, then, but certainly uncomfortable. She avoids my eyes, fingering the roses on her lap. Everything in hospitals is blue-and-white, a sick, sterile periwinkle that I suppose is supposed to be cheery. The sheets leach the red from the roses. I'm blue, anorex-da-ba-di.
Naked, she is a lesson in skeletal anatomy, shrunken skin pulled tight on bones ungirt by flesh. In this half-recline bed, I can see only her beautiful face floating above the covers, a corpse-