I think of piles of abandoned clothes at the laundromat
or a scab that won’t heal because it keeps getting picked off
when I think of what she’s going through.
And I relate too. I’ve walked that path.
She will get what she can bear and enough so her muscles grow
but she’s breaking under the weight
I know that because my heart’s done the same.
Every scrape, scratch, bruise, and burn thickens the concrete chamber where my heart stays
and my candle is either running out of wax or wick or maybe even air because my flame is shorter and quieter by the day.