Atlas's Daughter

My collarbone is bruised where it was snapped in half and my back is hunched from bearing the responsibility of my generation. The sticks and stones that break my bones mar the shelves where I had wings. They are long gone, lost to the self-betterment. They represent a time for which nostalgia is no longer in vogue. I used to have a dainty roundedness on the end of my shoulder, rolling onto the white of my arm. Now my shoulders are pressed and wide, scarred by the work of my fathers. When I try on shirts and sweaters, the seams tear in protest, I hear the cries of the cotton, in disgust of my stature. And I know it's because I am what I was groomed to be. The men I once loved feared the curse of mortality so they left me to the doom they created and looked the other way. So I cover my shape with rags and try not to jostle the yolk I've carried for you. When we met, you were the size of my pupil and you thought I was the starless sky. It wasn't until you died that I saw you and you understood me. You told me you loved those nights when the stars wouldn't show and I told you I was sorry for blocking the sun but we agreed that it didn't matter anyway since I had never known light. Those sweaters you bought me fit perfectly because you loved me and the thing my body had become and together we fought through the cold waiting for tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.