The morning were intimate and undamaged by dark; the day was an open sore, barely breathing; the evening was a day-dull star, blinking back; the night was the moon in a doe-eyed gaze. I thought, once, that every dawn brought with it a fresh hell, a new bruise or a new bone to find broken.
People tell me now that I am strong. I have never thought about myself in this way, always wanting to be too-small and always feeling too fragile. It used to rain inside me, once for always and sixty days.