Her life bled, little by little,

like droplets of pinpricks or mosquito

annoyings; the defecations of

ever so proud

beings: her family and loved ones:

or, at least, the ones she loved.

For loving her back, it wasn’t quite

the same: for loving her back consisted

mainly of money, and gifts handed out



and centrally placed for maximum effect:

to make her feel small and unable

to do

the stuff that she knew herself

able to do.

But in truth she did fail, and so did her

husband – the man who might one day

have achieved so many things –

precisely because they put them in the place

they preferred to have them, so they could

make them feel small by giving them the

handouts they needed as a result

of being in the place they were given

and forced to stay in.


And this process wasn’t limited

to one country or another: for some really

wild reason it happened again,

when they ventured outside her

place of birth and started – or tried to start –

with the resources that remained,

and the handouts that repeated,

and the lives that were limited

by the largesse of those people

who always preferred to have

others around them needy of gifts than

persons who were free of ties and

bleeding –

binding! –

tapes of bloody red


the anger that would bloody all hope.

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