That Is My Psychological Diagnosis

Skin pale white, her hospital gown, a moth filled wedding dress. straps and shackles tie her down like a corset; more buckles and ties than Harry Houdini. she frantically turns toward the door like a two year old throwing a temper tantrum, her hands wrapped around her body, hugging her own hips. Fingernails cut down to the cuticle just in case she had any ideas. Dirty blonde hair becoming static as if she rubbed a balloon on her scalp a head of tranquility, restless hair from sex. Panting, like a winded dog chasing its ball, Her lips caught me off guard, They were blue, not like the cold midnight sky, but a body bound for hypothermia longing for freedom from restraint. That is my psychological diagnosis