by Lindsey Heatherly


She sits, spineless, chin tucked to her chest,

in a room with glimpses of yesterday

displayed along alabaster walls.

She watches, tears staining her notes,

the moments that define her completely.

Reliving them each day is her ritual.

The ink jots down improvements,

imperfections, and how to appear less human.

Less tears, she mutters through sobs,

the mantra that never quite sticks.

They’ll think you want attention or pity,

when, really, she only wants peace.

She thumps the notebook closed

and rounds up the supplies

she’ll need to get through the day.

On her way out, she grabs her purse and keys,

and from the worn shelf beside the door,

the vertebrae she wedges into place,

to hold her head up for the day.



Lindsey Heatherly is an emerging writer, born and raised in Upstate South Carolina. She has work forthcoming in The Scriblerus Arts Journal and Rejection Letters. She works as a pharmacy technician in an inpatient psychiatric hospital and spends her time at home raising a strong, confident daughter.






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