Fostered,
but never really given away,
still shackled to the fray,
and the leech that swims down and feasts.
You were air,
until you held my nose
and cut off my clothes.
A paramedic
or three men in a trenchcoat;
I don’t know.
Bag over my head,
I still leave notes behind.
I hope you read them,
I hope you cry.