Lent and Borrowed

In the hospital’s sterile glow, I breathed in dread,

the smell of antiseptic clung like a second skin,

and I thought of her, lying there, borrowed and breaking,

each scar a reminder of choices unmade.

How much of us is ours, really, when flesh can be lent,

trading hearts like currency, weak as a thread?

We navigate pain, like wearing someone else’s shoes,

time’s heavy hand, pressing down like a weight.