i have the muscles of a girl who has been consistently left.
in the shower i sit on my tailbone, arms wrapped around my knees
like i have already been folded.
worn twice
    or sold for less
than what i was created.

the water does it's ghost sound, heavy

like the weight
   of a thousand swans dying

or one child's heartbeat breaking
and i cover my ears to my own.
shut down my hurts,
  hold fiercly
to the way a storm can pound
is pounding must pound

against my naked frame (my pictures
have to be soaked through by now) because that sky throbbing -
wounded and wet and so generous to me
with its held in life, the ripe rain,

in those moments
that is the only thing for over thirty eight very round miles
that makes sense. and somewhere, far off, maybe in the next room
or the next atmosphere -

i can hear a galaxy gesturing
for me to stay awhile longer, just to be sure.
to be safe.