Beneath the ugliest crime lies the most beautiful criminal. When she strikes out at me, lashes, stems, I weep. She takes my independence and puts it in her back pocket. There is a plan, a larger plan, and it would seem as though I am a step. Whether I am a step up or down I have not recognized. There is nothing here, left, to recognize anymore. Creeping, deliberately, toward some dying peace. And when I arrive will I find that peace is all what people say it is?
There is much I assume about her. Much I do not know. And while there is bliss to be found in my ignorance of such a magnificent picture, there is too a sour staleness. Present and vile, solemn, looming over me as a mother watching the baby she is about to strangle.
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