THE DISAPPEARING GIRL
I asked why you were here—you said something
about an impulsive text, a boiling point, though all
I had to to do was read the poem of scars
from your shoulder down. When you threw
the question back at me, I lied, meaning
I told you what I truly believed, that I was better
than everyone here. I, companionable and driven,
who had never cut into the part of my wrist
that mattered. Seeing how cruel you were to all
but me, I knew I had to save you, though I soon learned
that task was beyond me, that the concept of healing
disturbed you—call it a fear of heights. At least
I could amuse you. The other patients played
The Disappearing Girl, because Hangman
was outlawed here. As if that isn’t what we want,
I whispered to you, to disappear. Once,
in the rec room, I mimicked the run
of a wounded deer, the splintered drudge of it.
You laughed. I saw it. Your laugh curled
like a thick red ribbon around your throat.
Annie Przypyszny is a poet from Washington, DC who will begin pursuing an MFA in Poetry at the University of Maryland this Fall. She is an Assistant Editor for Grace and Gravity and has poems published in The Northern Virginia Review, Jet Fuel Review, Watershed Review, The Healing Muse, North Dakota Quarterly, Tupelo Quarterly, Ponder Review, SWWIM, Lines + Stars, and others. She recently received American University’s President’s Award, the highest award given to an undergraduate upon graduation.