its hard to measure a single beating heart 
to measure its clawing judgement. 
to measure the mothers beating blood while she’s
wrenching, retching and writhing. 
its hard to measure disgust, 
difficult to seethe while corps-less hearts beat inside you. 
its easy to declare a hidden hate, 
easy to let it wage a war on a world you don’t understand. 
its hard to watch, fallen sisters. 
its difficult to hear the screeching footsteps on back alley stones. 
difficult to ignore a wardrobe of utensils. 
easy to flinch, and stay quiet. 
they rely on our ability to do so.