Dirty Slate

She turned up yesterday and 
knocked on my door.
Some half human thing:
grease thick in its hair 
dirt under its fingernails and 
mascara streaking its cheeks.

She leans in 
all cigarette smoke breath
someone else’s sweat
no shame 

and familiar tears are leaking from her eyes 
as she murmurs 
“I don’t want to be anywhere but here.”
Sweet nostalgia demands I let her in.

Is this what it means
to be adored? 
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