tenderness to you was only the absence of a bruise

little did my child-self know that she'd outrun the ground before it managed to swallow her whole: that i carry her with me, everywhere, with the violent tenderness of a soldier hauling bloodied loves onto his back. i hold her, gently, curl her into a crescent moon in the pupil of my eye so that she may watch us knead hope out of flour, waltz in the kitchen and slip on tiles, and gaze out the window, quietly, wondering why the sun still rises