Factitious Disorder Imposed on Another

You cradle her suffering
like a rosary of your own design,
counting each gasp, each pallor,
each fevered tremor
as if they were beads of devotion.

You do not love her body—
you curate it.
Bruise by bruise,
pulse by falter,
you compose a symphony of decline
and call it care.

The world sees gentleness in your hands,
but I see the hunger beneath them—
how you feast on her fragility,
how her weakness
makes you whole.

You turn medicine into ritual,
the syringe into scripture,
her slow unravelling
into proof of your sainthood.
What horror wears a smile so tender?
What cruelty prays
with such steady hands?

And when she collapses—
not by fate, but by design—
you will weep for her,
and they will believe you.
Only I will know
that every tear
was written in advance,
a line rehearsed,
a curse perfected.

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