M.R.I.

The morning after is always cruel in its daylight and in how clearly the colors arrange. You try to tie together the yarn that unraveled, salvage what escaped your yielding skin and sew it back into a person again. You cannot quite remember words, or reasons, or how the night even got so long; the edge of a winter storm whips at your feet as you stumble to work, but on the ground lies only cold water.

By the time I arrive at the hospital for a brain research study, the streets are dark again, yet my mind no sounder. But as I lie in the scanner tunnel, unable to move, or speak, or hear, only focusing on staying still and letting thoughts stream past unnoticed, a sense of calm descends through my veins.

I remember what you said. I heard what you didn't. I tie them in, when I put myself back together. And my brain looks just fine, in pictures.