Maybe there really is a child in there,
Innocent and cowering
Under the weight I force on Her shoulders.
I suppose She has been there for years,
hiding in a glass box behind my ribs
and between my lungs,
watching my chest rise and fall
and my blood become unclean.

Perhaps She will one day outgrow Her box,
grow tired of holding me up
and forcing Her spine into a grotesque curve.
Tired of skin so tight it could rip.
I do not deserve Her strength,
Her perseverance and willingness to exist.
I’ve seen Her grip on to it,
keeping it close to Her chest.

Perhaps I’ll find a way to help Her.
Take Her from Her box,
clean Her like a doll,
Repair Her punctures
And care for Her as I know I should.
But to love is hard,
to maintain it is even harder.

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