She Cannot Save Herself

She cannot save herself because she hasn't got the time to. She's too busy searching for the break down, tied up by making lots of small messes inside of bigger ones. Her mind's all right, but races in the still of it. She can't be bored. She's beautiful. She's up late while you are sleeping, picking and pulling the good apart, simultaneously defining and denying need. She won't eat fruit because it's pretty and full of juice and therefore undesirable in its nature to provide instead of take away. She craves a salt that stings the inside, that makes the skin swell, that wakes her up from a nap dry and gasping for a drink. If it wasn't you, it would be another. She is not a victim, and truly, though I'm sure your guilt feels so heavy, you are just the child of an idle disaster. You saw her sweetly at the exact moment she needed a little kindness. It was a summer day, right? Perhaps the sun was in your eye.