Open Letter

The woman across from me got Mami's hands. Picking at the red half-moon growing wet beneath. Mami used to waiting for something or maybe nothing just her hands making small wounds. The woman don't look up. I should. Dr. Reese say my name. The woman still bleeding when I walk past. In Arkham outpatient it smell sweet. Something like sanitizer trying to be flowers. You sleeping better? Better. I sleep all the way through now. No dreams. Nothing waking me up. She write it down and I feel lighter.

You used to carry them. The man on Kane talking to somebody's mother maybe his maybe yours the doorway where someone got no shoes in November rain THEY ARE WATCHING someone wrote maybe they are maybe they were Masked men. Or uniforms. You can't remember were there faces or the zip-tie click so close it felt like it happened inside your teeth and then

Dr. Reese say that's the brain protecting. Intrusive thoughts she call them. Observe without attachment she say. Don't carry it home. Don't let it live in your head where it can't help nobody. And she right. You lighter now. You walked past Kane thinking nothing heavy. Eggs. Whether the store close at nine. The woman in the waiting room her left hand bled or her right you can't remember and maybe that's better

No te olvides Mami said. But forgetting maybe it help. Dr. Reese say the brain it let go what you don't need to carry. I used to wake up swimming in my head drowning in who were they what did I say why did they now I wake to weather. Check my phone. Water for coffee. The meds working. The sessions. Someone was picking. Mami when she waited. When she worried. When she. I forget what I was saying. But I remember she wanted me to remember. Or maybe she wanted me safe.

Better. The woman. Mami's hands. Better weather coming. I can't remember what I'm forgetting but my head feel lighter Mami Better