WAITING TO BE KISSED.

BOY AND GIRL IN A LOCKED WARD IN 1971.

Benedict watched Christine;
she was applying lipstick
to her lips, gazing at herself
in the bathroom mirror.

She mouthed her lips together
as he had seen his mother
do many times as a child
to spread the lipstick evenly.

That looks better, he said.
She eyed in him in the mirror.
Least I can do to make myself
liveable again. He smiled.

Her hair was brushed, not
messed up as was per norm.

Maybe you’ll be ready to get
out of the locked ward soon,
he said. She lowered her eyes.

Brushing hair and applying
lipstick doesn’t mean I can
forget that dickhead, she said.

Still have problems inside
my head. Maybe they’ll stop
the ECTs, he said, give you
pills or such. She pushed
the lipstick in her dressing
gown pocket, walked out
 of the bathroom on naked feet.

He followed her to the window
of the lounge where other
patients sat or stood and
peered out at the snow.

I want to be out there,
feel that coldness, that air,
that biting chill, want to be
alive, want to feel, she said.

Benedict smelt the scent
of old soap, sensed her fingers
touching along his arm, her
breath made mist upon the glass.

They can stick their ECTs,
she muttered, they do nothing
for me except mess with my head.

He allowed her finger to run
down his skin, to move about
his wrist, smooth the scar where
a blade once ran, touch his
lips waiting again to be kissed.