lavender scented soap bubbles on my belly - hugging the weight I’m not destined to lose.
you smiled, I heard it in your warm voice.
today your daughter does a good job of holding herself together.
the pale moonlight behind closed doors tells me to stop reopening old wounds and I listen. maybe for the first time in months.
I took a bath today. the size of my legs are just the size of my legs, and the sun will rise tomorrow - even behind closed doors.

and maybe, I whisper to my body, you are not as evil as they say. maybe you are just a byproduct of something much greater.

winter is knocking at your door
and you have forgotten how to welcome a long lost friend.
your fourteen-year-old bones are rattling, your feet are cold and you want to slam your head against the wall.
winter is looking through your kitchen window and you are six years old again and hide under the dark brown piano. winter has come to remind you of your darkest dreams, but you close your eyes and cannot be seen anymore (you are now four years old). you want to dream yourself away like you always have, escaping into worlds of blooming tulips and slow dances. winter is knocking at your door, so you make hot chocolate for two and decide to say hello (you are nineteen, and you have learned how to survive).

my arms wave in the wind
I am here alone
melting into a puddle of grey
the sea level has risen
and you cannot save me anymore
tonight the ocean will gain
another lost angel of august