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For my creative writing class.

“It’s the last bad day,”
     she swears with a whisper
     soft as the sheets I pull
     up to her chin like a child
     and I remember when–

“It’s the last bad day,”
     she prays again, but not as
     sure as last night, last week;
     she’s been begging for years now
     and ever since–

“It’s the last bad day.”
     Three is her usual as is my
     nod and a finger on the switch,
     one day she’ll get it right
     and then–