Something sinister
in the way I am so soft.
To touches,
to what was called
love.
Inside
where the cuts are made
bleeds easily.
Easily
to sleep
in tears always.
And then,
healing.
Not hard,
us,
we.
What are we
made of?
Nothing
that breaks
or chips
or cracks
or comes apart,
but remains
still
and strong.
Something sinister
in the way I am so strong.
Originally published in HUES Magazine, 1999
© Nellie Levine