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is your
You could be leaning in an open doorway, your hands on
your ever-so-slightly swollen belly. Telling me that you are
going to have to take care of it. Knowing I will know what
you mean.
You could be marching in front of a massive tree,
guarding it from all comers. Telling me about how they ruin
everything and someone has to take the power to stop them.
Finding your own way to stop the murdering bastards. You could be sitting at a long oak desk, edges shiny from
too many passing papers. There will be a sign on your desk:
the buck stops here. But we know it doesn't. The papers you
sign are far too complicated for that. You could be standing at a map, pushing in pins where
people will die. If I asked, you would tell me that this is the way it has
to be. Whatever the circumstances are, this is your reality, you
tell me. Not mine. Stay out. I nod. Turn to watch the roses bruising slightly purple
in the beating rain. I know that you are wrong. But I do not
tell you this.
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