What Is Truth

This is not true. It’s made up. A lie. Maybe so,but, she treated it like truth.

She held it in her arms. Rocked it back and forth. Said, shhhh, if she heard it yelling. She’d often hear it yell.

And, sometimes the young woman would sit it down on the floor and just look at it. Feed the child when it was hungry with her left breast. Then sit her back down on her stomach. Pat her on the back. Try to get a burp out of her. They’d both laugh.

In the middle of the night she’d hear it crying. Bellowing out into the dark. The girl would pick up her child and dance with it. Holding baby girl close to her chest. Protected by her skinny arms. Then, after an hour or so, she’d lay it back down in a crib.

There was a mobile above the crib that she’d spin around and watch her child smile, laugh, and coo. The young mom would play with her for an hour. The child seemed fascinated with it. She’d reach up for it and kick. Mom loved to see her play. It made her happy.

This is not true. It’s made up. A lie. Maybe so, but, she treated it like truth.

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The writing is based on my surroundings and what I've been surrounded by. This language is coarse and politically incorrect; which I make no apologies for. These characters are not nice and to use any other dialogue would be disingenuine. That being said, I choose to roll the dice. dm seay

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