Alane, a story.

A woman was once crying, and I saw her, and holding true to my convictions I grabbed hold of her, and comforted her, and she latched onto me, and her skeleton hands wouldn’t let go of me, and I wonder how much longer will I stand here supporting her, how much longer can I stay before I crumble?

I am not near death, I am still healthy in comparison, but when I have become an appendage of her, and I must break free of her, will she call me selfish? Will she she yell at me?

(Can she blame me?)

The woman brings both torrential downpours and dehydration with her wherever she travels. When will she move on?

“I will pray for you,” I say. “I’m sorry, that’s all I can do.”

“You’re a sinner. You’re a hypocrite,” she says,

“(Fuck you.)”

I’m sorry for the misunderstanding.