In her arms, words were quiet
no noise or fighting proof
the atmosphere was precious
it built bridges across breasts
and held space for pain from right to left

But she didn’t suffer
the last tear breathed heavy
sometimes stairs proved weighty
(she had asthma as a baby)
and chubby cheeks held smiles
as well as frowns
and falsehoods
and fears
over thirty years
of trying to find love in her own face
(mirrors split in half from her sadness)

In her arms, life started and stopped
choking heart didn’t spit up much
the space where stuff was stuck
held beatings and breathing that never touched
and across her skin some parts were uneven
some parts were scarred
and starved
but salvaged
and from them she promised to build
if not in this chapter, the one that follows

But she didn’t bleed
the last cut tore through her bravery
long walks shifted energy
(she got lost once as a girl)
and then she learned the books they gave
were really actually plays
so she tore them up with her old hair
and threw them out with her old self
(no noise or fighting proof)

All they found were curly cues
and hazel eyes
and skin left on for clarity
grown children cried
they thought she died
but there was just more room for me.