She tried, in the ways she could.
Learned to cook, learned to please,
showed up in the body
when the rest of her was elsewhere.
But a mouth on my skin
and a good meal on the table
is not the same as safety.
Is not the same as being known.
I told her this.
Tried to find the words
that would open a door in her.
She heard it as complaint.
Or didn't hear it at all.