Last night, blade in hand she sat, pent up anger rising through crimson slits, frantically shaking away drips of despair. All the pain only relative, an evaporation from the mind condenses on her body. Today she soaks smeared stains in cold water, wipes up any sticky puddles she can find, wears a jumper in summer and makes time to tune in to the saccharine soap she watches every day. There is a patch of dried blood on the bathroom door handle where a hand pulled at it to be free. I do not wipe it away. I want her to catch sight. To see herself in it’s reflection, And me; the absorbent dam in her pain's reservoir.