Her hair's a satsuma
face aged like leather
left too long in the sun.
Her cardigan
soft and brown once
now hangs brittle and beige.
She’s thin
too thin
snap-her-limbs-by-breathing-near-her thin.
Her skin is chalky
classroom-worn
resigned.
She smells of soap
and my mother’s bedroom
and church halls.
I catch her looking unsure
for a second
a little frightened
as I squirm
struggling to break free
from her boney hug.
I kick her
then scream
then kick her again.
She’s not important to me.