They used to talk to me like that, waiting like vertical coffins, their black looks framing their bodies, as maggots fed on their consciences, brought rapidly to mind by the contrivance, of suggestive religion, these mothers of daughters and wives to men, who daily toiled in god's earth for devil's wages, and they looked at me like that. I want to spit in their faces, and say I am the wronged woman, and twist their putrid intestines, until their life-blood drains from them, how dare they judge me who was their friend, their lover, their intimate, I can taste the salty breath, of them still, and they looked at me like that. It is not they that go headlong into, this deep dark pit that beckons now, and so I leave them to their poison, I turn my back on their rancour, the stink of sulphur is about me, my time is now and I am ready.