and the closed lipped girl
melts for the first time
and lets her fingers become
the string that sews up
her opened wounds

she breathes in the morning
air like it is acid
on her tongue
and drowns in the storm
of her steamy shower stream

she aches painfully like
the colorful bruise
on her hip
that has taken
too many hits against
her kitchen counter

she was never in love
and it shows
as her porcelain
eyes gleam
like glass
at the hint of him

her heavy bones
bear too much weight
for her frail
and dainty shoulders
anyway

and the sore-footed girl
drags on like
each day must
and exhales the evening air
like it something
glad to be rid of