there is a strength we rarely talk about,
the kind that rouses a body out of bed each morning,
a strength that reminds my body to open a window and breathe.
the quiet fortitude that coaxes the shaky hand to lift the fork to eat, the cup to drink.
the strength it takes to choose each day to stay alive.
touch me, i whisper.
the palm of your hand,
cupped along the lower curve of my belly.
hold me, the whisper begs
while electric currents weave down the lonely contours of my skin.
i am still alive.
that, in itself, is a story to be told.