Her shoulders are connected to the base of her neck by thick burning rope.
The vagaries of life hang from the rope like ornaments on a tree.
The memories that won’t leave, the nightmares which seem real,
the help that was not given, all hang delicately and deliberately from her body.
If her sadness were a bruise, she would be a black and purple mass of battered skin, with Merlot shadows seeping through the fading yellows and greens.
When one episode of sadness is over, she automatically starts a new reel,
new purple for the old green, an endless cycle of fading and appearing.
The doctors would cover her in magic cream,
slathering it over her skin in layers and layers so that she looks white all over.
This thick mess like wallpaper paste covering her from head to toe,
only her black eyes peeping out through the slick skin.
The potion of disguise stuck in the ends of her hair,
the deceptive lotion embedded under her nails.
The oily formula clots her every orifice,
but at least they cannot see the bruises.
They would cart her around; she is not allowed to sit down
or move very much because otherwise the cream will rub off.
Her purple melancholy will be revealed
and everyone will say that they have failed her.
Part of her will hope that it will rain so that the magic cream will slowly
slowly melt away into a peaceful puddle at her feet.
Then her pain is open in full view and everyone can see that she is not white
but that she is purple and that she is sad.
But she may want to layer it up even more, stick even more things on top of the cream, wrap herself in newspaper and bubble wrap and blankets,
and layers and layers of meaningless matter,
forming her own private cocoon, keeping the bruises under wraps.
Then maybe she would put herself in a cardboard box,
where she is safe and she is not purple anymore.
Nobody else can see that she is sad and she cannot see through all the layers,
and even if she could it is dark in the box, so nothing even matters because she is safe.