The unscarred soul offends her. Lethargy in her thin wrists in her twisted hips. The truly useless vagrant drunk throws how can she do this to herself in your face. This monument to distrust. This unfemale woman. The lovelessness of her ho-hum do-nothing swaying. Devil may care in her gaze but no masculine mystique in her low-hanging mother breasts and in her thin bones. This truly useless drunk from whom you want nothing. Who claims to want nothing from you.
The sight of a child repels her. Like a heretic at the sight of her God. The child's affabilities not endearing it to the woman. If she could get her hands on a child it she'd throw it in the fire. Her own wasted motherhood glaring back at her. Condemning her. Dooming her. She and her tramp friends coconspirators against the essence of a child. They warm their hands over the trash fire and worship unforgivable gods in the night.
Those that know her come in and out of her life. They have no clout with her but one. The devil comes to her in the hiding-dark of the night. His loving gaze her nourishing nectar. Every night she tells him the same story of the drunk ecstasy her lover now, her child now. They don't know the happiness I feel. He tells her that's all right. The woman-drunk wants nothing from you and chases the only ecstasy she knows. The unscarred soul offends her.