no use praying my hands fold nonetheless
for what I am not--
“It was never me who did this,” Lara says, pointing to the scars on her arms.
She was fourteen when her father abandoned the family. Lara tells me that she felt a darkness grow inside her. Then one day she found her left wrist bleeding, and a stained pair of scissors in her right hand. Over the next year this happened twice.
“I take medicines now,” she whispers, “but sometimes the devil still gets in.”
the center of each empt(i)ness an I