No Tower

I remember the first time I was in a hallway with shrunken hips,
both my hips and those halls were white and red.
A decoration.
I remember the summer that I half disappeared,
holding tight to my bones,
so they wouldn’t press out of my aching edges.
Another girl said she’d heard a rattle, she claimed it for herself,
but I knew it was me.
I wasn’t excellent against the wind and water,
I just was. Eroded and slightly slanted. A leaning, but no tower.
No shrunken head, no voodoo doll,
Just a skinny girl with a too-big soul.

Originally published in the 2016 Poetry Marathon Anthology.