She exists, for now, and she’s not invisible. They’re mad she’s filthy, that she’s breathing (albeit in a hacking, unhealthy way), and that they can’t, especially in the light of day, make her disappear-not even with hate. Too scared mostly, they don’t know where to begin. The woman doesn’t ask for help from passersby, and no one will help anyway. She’s mumbling indomitably sad facts, such as: “I’m hungry. Her face-dirty, lined, blemished, and swollen-is full of pain. Stained underwear sticks out from her soiled, oversized sweats. She moves languidly, stopping momentarily to lean on the stanchion of a streetlight, in a seemingly untroubled haze. Stumbling lugubriously down a pee-smelling, detritus-strewn sidewalk, the too-skinny woman’s eyes are glazed.
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