She said,

I am listening when you’re ready.”

Tapping her pen against a noteboard,

actual beams lazing onto the floor,

so I told her of the molten silver,

and how it sprayed upon my chest,

while he stood above me, pouring from above,

vertical and direct.

How every dark line etched across my body

was stretched thin and how the rivers of

bone became so delicately interconnected,

how the hot liquid filled in my shattered skin

and entered all the cracks.

i spoke to her of the robber girls,

who I met with every week and how

they told the same story I did,

and followed the same narratives.

Only tiny details change, indications here and there,

and our meetings took place at night, under the moon.

Our silver fillings lit up under the dark sky.

We traced every moment back to our former selves,

while they were push plastic and whole,

and how they looked nothing like the ones we saw in the mirror.

Each betrayal opened up more wounds,

new places that had to be secreted, but

when a girl was filled the wrong way it was

like poison, and when we lost her

we lost another part of our gang, our little group getting smaller.

I’m back in the room, and to the woman I told her

about the milk teeth, the early protective gloves we had to put on,

to take out the old parts, one by one.

and when I spoke to them, when I confided in them,

even in the day,

I looked behind their eyes

and could see the shine.

The shine from the fixed ceramic, the golden repair.

It had come back. We had done it together.

Psychology tells us that people that have been hurt

the same way gravitate to each other,

with no knowledge of their past, and only their earth to guide them.

“I am listening when you speak.”

she said, and my face felt delicate and thin.

She pointed at the glass ceiling,

and i looked up, seeing

the broken pieces mended with

silver lines to keep them together.

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