She is still growing

Sad girls steal

her covers at night

and paint her face

in the morning

so

she hides in cracks

and washes herself

in cups of

old coffee.

At first

I was afraid

because

she looked so much

like me

but as she bore her teeth

like knives

to those who have

watched her suffer

I saw in front of me

a survivor,

a fox footed fighter who

bore a fleeting resemblance

to the wild.

You have seen

the stains in my sheets

and the

marks along my skin

but the bones

in my body belong

only to her.

She is still growing

and she is mine.