You grasp my hand and cling,
soft, wrinkled fingers
worrying at mine like a neurotic cuttlefish.
It's for strength, you say,
but your pain soaks into my wrist
like radiation into the soil.
An infectious disease I wish I could be vaccinated against,
my antibodies so strong against you
that your agony spills over, around me,
and I could watch it from the distance of a thousand layers of latex.
Sometimes I have to raise an umbrella
to keep from showering in your pain,
a shield to keep your grasping hands
from stealing pieces of my life
one moment,
one hour,
one day at a time.
I've given you so much already.
Your good girl,
your obedient child,
your tool toy terrible plaything.
Now your days shorten,
your shadows stretch out to take you
even as you reach out to steal bits of me,
bricks of me,
to keep them at bay.
Selfish to the end.
