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?