staring at a painting
of the horizon,
her fingers smudge the glass
as she traces the outline of the clouds
in the distance.
her breath condenses and she draws a
message with her fingertips,
a backwards
 help
        im still listening

she is lost in a menagerie,
stuck in a quaking apology,
interminably still
inside a trophy case
that is never dusted
or passed by.

she has not been taken out, 
held, or thought of
in ages.

“inner child”

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