Temporary like me

 “Temporary, Like Me”

They handed her to me wrapped in red tape,

A bundle of trauma with no real escape.

“Love her like yours,” they said with a smile,

“But don’t ask too much—just stay for a while.”

I held her through screaming, through silence, through fear,

Asked questions they didn’t want anyone near.

“What happened before?” “Why won’t she eat?”

“Why does she flinch?” “Why can’t she sleep?”

They tell me to care but not care too loud,

To be there, but quiet, obedient, proud.

I ask for a doctor, a second set of eyes,

They meet me with silence or sugar-wrapped lies.

I’m told I’m too much when I won’t play along,

That fighting for answers is somehow just wrong.

I speak up for her, but I’m labeled a threat,

A problem, a burden, too easy to forget.

“You’re just a bed,” they say without saying,

“Just keep her safe, keep feeding, keep praying.

But don’t get involved, don’t cross that line—

She’s not really yours, and she’s not really mine.”

And maybe they’re right—maybe I’m too raw,

Too hopeful for justice, too struck by the flaw.

Because love in this system is measured in weeks,

And those who fight hardest are silenced as freaks.

So after this child, when she finds her way,

I’ll fold up the crib and walk away.

Not because I stopped loving or care too small—

But because I was never meant to care at all.

I was meant to be silent, to play the good part,

But I showed up with questions—and too much heart.