between my broken hands

 

the rain always runs
but for a fleeting moment leaves them wet
my mirror is in pieces in too many places
but were it whole I disappear
there will be none of me left
I was punished most of life
for having breasts for smiling
for having breasts for crying
but now I know, had I not, they who must
will find something else
it was the best of times,
it was the worst of times,
sorry, Mr. Dickens
and thank you