if a woman dies and there is no one there to romanticize her pain, did her life mean anything at all?
i. We are falling women, down down down until up is down and right is wrong and who are we, really, in our own inertial frame moving?
ii. We are wailing women, our tears can give life to others while we ourselves are dying, they have commodified our pain, where we meant to suffer to save others or is it only for saving do we suffer?
iii. We are singing women, luring the unsuspecting to their death, but can we help it when others have been taught our bodies are like flagpoles to signal to others that we are open to conquering?
iv. We are dying women, sighing women, in the dark abyss, but when we can’t see we can’t feel if we are moving, falling, our tears are a mystery here, no songs fill the void, the nothing void turns us into its own brand of forgetfulness.
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