Old Scabs

The lady in the yellow wallpaper wanders the perimeter having noticed a recent and unwelcome change in the scenery. The bars of her prison, those which once defined her desperate urge to escape, have been twisted, spun on their axis, and now, looking in the mirror, see notices just how unflattering they are.

When did I get fat? she asks no one in particular. She approaches her unwelcome reflection, a mirror in the corner of the room, hoping to shatter it, to deny any confirmation of her deformity. Reaching out to grasp at its frame, she notices her arms, once tools for rattling her cage have become flabby and soft. She can't reach the mirror, and in desperation she begins picking at the wallpaper, a nervous habit she's picked up during her interminable sentence.

Once, she focused on the bars, ripping holes in them uselessly in a feeble attempt to escape. Now looking at her own form, she pulls at her edges. She defines her waist, smoothes her hips, tears at the piece between her legs where she'd rather sense distance than communion. After a moment of reverie, envisioning a body she wants but will never inhabit, she sees her fingernails stained with crusts of clotted blood.

Old scabs she remembers.