The desperate can be charming;
I'll say that for them.
The homeless desperate for home
The unloved desperate for love
The poor, desperate for money.
And, perhaps,
at the back of my mind I always knew that.
Knew that I was being used
by someone poor, homeless, and desperate.
And I forgave the little hidings
The squirreling away of self
The curious carving out of personal space
although my family had freely given her
all our home and heart to roam in.
She kept her heart free of us, though.
And when
her own home, her own life, her own ...her own...
had finally arrived.
She stepped out of our lives
and forgot us
as if we had never existed at all.
Worse than a thief;
If robbers came,
they would have left something.
But she stole our hearts.
And then betrayed.
My heart has become quite cynical.
There is no healing it.
I cannot dream
of being kind again.
