Maskerades

There's an anorexic patient with me in the mental health ward. I've never heard her speak or touch her lips to the plastic hospital food. Her skull is wrapped in the alien fingers of a pale feeding tube. And I wonder if she's still the keeper of her soul. Her wrists are as frail as the silver threads of delicate spider webs. Her skin is fragile and paper-soft. I've never heard her speak or touch her lips. She's just another patient (without a name). Her eyes are lifeless, lost. And I wonder what that makes me; another patient who sees only her disease.