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The wolf with the pigs' ribs in its jaw was sufficient high enough. The birds in the tiny houses I'd built for them. Coddling eggs soon to be lunch. Karma has no spoils that humanity hasn't already quantified. Too many impotent gods on heavy thrones fumbling with their doses of Viagra.

She knows lost. Better than anyone. Deep striations in the softer pockets of skin. She keeps her fairy tales all in a spreadsheet. Rows and columns of stubborn malice. Lonely men with their underwear around their ankles. Chasing after the young.

Discarding her plate still half full. Or half empty. Depending upon how you view the heroine. She is a victim. Of many things. And also a villain of the same.

Watching the world in old films black and white. Like it has always been this way. Throngs of actors. Reciting the same old story. As if the tragedy has been festering there. In the all the moments she gave away.

Just lonely men. And the gaping graves in their faces. As they fail to charm the women that get in their way.