Even if I said there were apparitions,
and I had,
no one would believe me,
not since they labeled me the harlequin and went to bed at night secretly, and sometimes not so secretly, wishing my muddied mascara would stay permanently rimming my cheeks,
it was laziness,
and sheer apathy,
because otherwise they would have had to explain me,
but I know what I saw,
only a harlequin can see another harlequin for what she truly is,
invisible,
useless,
futile,
but a necessary justification for the asylum,
we were a good people,
we darkened brood,
we were,
but without our rings
without any of this really
without a diamond for a compass,
we were nothing more than paint,
with a good look at the other side of this mess
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