Who is, Who is she?

there is a black, hard backed bible that lives on her night standand it is something that she wipes away the dust from its thick spine and facebut the pages are still crisp and undone.

as countless sheets have never been undressed;
naked and seen.
some of the words seem to fall away from the columns of the white pagethey distance from their accompanied symbols and in their darknessdo not tell about the light anymore.
but as a child she would, at night, caress the thin silk with her fingertipsmaybe making sure that they were real.
and read and re-read them with fear, and with hope, and with admiration
ideas that had already been born into her;
familiar and archetype
and the words, they would wake her in the night, in the dark, and in the stars
bouncing off the sky and into her.
dreams about falling to her knees
and forming words from a language she had never heard, had never known, and feeling senses she could not fathom.
so it stood tall and calming in its' stance by the place designated for rest
but it had been years since she did.
the human things had begun to fade and mild.
and the things he had given her cracked at her skull and grew into space
so she's try to capture all of the stars and count them
so it wouldn't seem so infinite.
but in parabolas the sky and planets and spiraled life would crush hertight, matt, and frozen.
sometimes dismissing its entirety, then overflowing in agony, redundantly and in enormous white rooms she would try and write it down
pleading with the ceiling, begging for naivety.and the human voided and inanimate
her hands would move like magic and the old things, unseen and gone
swelled inside her skinwhere she would walk along the early morning road
telling her father the holocaust was within
and all the people, and all the pain
raced inside her nerves and brain
and every story played again
so maybe if she knew all of them, they wouldn't have died in vain.
cause there was a little girl and fifteen older boys, there were dogs and german men who made screaming noises
she could feel the fumes touching the heads all full of curls
the dropping, falling bodies of old women;
broken pearlsso she pretends to laugh at television
and blushing at young menbut things too big envelope her,
and no one can get in.