my fingers are spindles of thread, unwoven from blankets of strong women who fought harder fights than I could withstand.
my neck is a porcelain clock. engraved with wisps of words, it's cogs churning to keep my brain functioning.
my torso is an storm. lightning leaves scars acrioss the lining of my stomach, spreading out like spiderwebs, covered in dew. thunderheads boom when I walk, rattling my ribs and awakening this hummingbird heart.
my spine is a garden, blooming. daisys and forget-me-nots bloom from the soil tilled into my veterbrae.
My hamstrings are tightrope across the twin towers, quivering.
My knees are doorknobs left unturned, the room contents dusty and cobwebs string the corners.