A weak hand reaches out now,
fear is in her eyes,
whispers a curly prayer,
no mascara tears.
Is she a performer,
is her pain real?
Our insufficiency
feeds apathy.
"She even lost her heart", we say,
keep our own away.
The more she needs
the less I give.
If she's in vain
I leave her.
The harder she tries
the worse I see her.
All that is weak.
I leave behind.
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