it's her life, this life,
this one she's had, now in
a crinkled bag
of skin and bones,
brown eyes, and smiles
that are safety nets
to let others in.
she remembers nothing
of what you said
ten minutes ago, or what'll
say ten minutes from
now, again.
the moments slip out
of her hands like fish
caught, then let go.
but it's fine. fine for
now. she's here, she's
alive, she's clean
and in the hands of others
more skilled than you
at keeping her death at bay.
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