Perhaps the depravity of man is much more intimate than we would like to believe
That it is vested in our subconscious like Russian nesting dolls one inside the other,
Inside the other.
Last night I dreamt that she held me in her arms
And explained it all:
That her mother had gone missing in the way that people do when dreaming
And relief bubbled in my chest
Threatened to bear its ugly yellow teeth
In a gurgle of a laugh
Because she was safe,
Despite how the lines on her face
Betrayed, how she wished it were she instead.
How cruel it is that the world takes, but how cruel are we,
Life matters more when we see it.