She speaks to me with this calm, simplistic,
condescending lilt to her voice.
as if I should already know, this so simple thing.
Easy to stand above and say what is right, what I should know.
What I should know.
But she has never been in this place, never touched these things.
I wait to feel the pang of regret, and there is nothing but vague distaste.
Nothing I can't deal with.
I scrub my hands over tired eyes, pull fingers through disheveled hair.
It smoothes down into flat, shining waves,
and my smile is a flat, shining thing,
reflected back at me by the mirror.
She is standing behind me, talking of right and wrong, morals and dignity.
I smile, watching the way it stretches over my too thin cheeks,
seeing the lines etch into pale skin.
Small, oblong, bruise purpling along my collarbone.
I smile, because she thinks I don't know, that I should know.
But I have known, do know, have always known.
I've just forgotten how to care.