Beyond the grille of Bella’s cage, without whispers, they pity and pronounce:
Poor girl, still moves like she’s on a hot tin roof. See, her world’s upside down, uncorrected by her brain.
But inside, Bella is dancing on the ceiling, listening loudly to the experimental beat of her heart. Forever wearing floral onesies and cauliflower shoes, she’s certainly no cat nor knows what’s considered cool.
In their textbooks, the words set out to trace the brain but the typography misses her humanity. While sipping tea, they connect their dots, scheduling Bella for sedation and a lobotomy before her heartsong can end.