Nothing much moves, now, but my own ragged breath and all the broken images crashing round about; settings and scenes bleeding in and out of memory, looking for airtime.

My life and I, alone at last.
Nothing much moves, now,
unless its moved for me.

Lid no longer parts from lid to see the sky through the frame where the seasons changed.
or to whom the voices belong to.

Lip no longer parts hurriedly from lip for my sounds to form – for my stories to tumble out in search of ears that will believe them.
Forks and spoons stopped stopping-by long ago. And shhh-ed for good, I’ve shut up shop.

I was a girl once, not this pile of ancient brittle bone draped in stained crepe-paper; Still, and silently sat on the brink of insignificance.

Once, I was a girl,

and I moved.