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

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.