The god of unwanted children herself grew up wild, breasts bursting out from a t-shirt, face slapped for defiance or an insistence on climbing trees then hanging upside down. There’s always escape but nowhere to go, no food, only fruit stolen, skin ripped with thumbnail, not-quite-ripe acid souring that belly, heat rash prickling at unwashed neck. She’ll take you in, share everything: smokes, coin, threadbare blanket, lice, kisses, rage. Spin stories past belief, long beyond bedtime, gathering kids forgotten like her, me worshipping those star-fire eyes.
Touched, you, Kathryn. G
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