twelve

i could only stare at the place where the wall had come away from the ceiling, and it's strange rounded shadow cast. and after it all i looked down at my hands, those that had failed me over and over and they were smeared black with something that looked so like ink but really was the oily streak of makeup, corrupted by the tears and the rubbing of my palms against eyelids squeezed too hard. my face looked no better as i stood before my reflection and felt my throat tighten at my own piteous image; my cheeks and lips so swollen; the whites of my eyes long ago reddened by the salt of my terror. i tucked myself then into bed, prepared for the spasms and fits and moans of pain; but i lie vacant. calm. my mind a vessel of white noise. and that was it. that was all. an explosion of burning skin and fear and howling pain as the rain shattered against my arms and my face and my legs and for the first time i came to know, to understand, the complexity of aftershock. the void of feeling; caring; wanting. everything.