the dirt on violence part two

I’m dreaming. My friend is being beaten by a man I’ve never met. I can’t picture him. Can’t see his face. He has her by the hair her sweet heart strangled by his violence as it plays across her chest, her skin, veins, soul. Her heart is sweet. Has always been sweet. I have to wake up. Breathing. I can’t get to her. Some things block my way and then I’m picking her up from the arms of an angel and dropping her across town. I wake up. Drive home. Cook dinner. Drink. Praise whatever it is that brings us here for my own struggles and gifts. My other dream carries me away. I am unscathed.

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