Those sheets, never washed enough —
thrashed and speckled and ignored.
Of course, never hearing words
that stinted her growth. And then
she cried, and then those tears dried
on the pillow, an archive
of damp days she would forget.
But no, her life wasn’t bad
apart from his guilty taunts.
These sheets felt the good days, too,
nights when blood did not spatter
across fabric while she slept.
Stitches, cartilage, keeping
her heart inside of her head,
sleep, keeping her sane, in bed.