You gaze upon a simple scene.

There you see,
A fool.

Face to face,
With a dream.

The light is soft,
The air is still.

You lean in.

The dream lifts her hand,
Strikes the fool’s cheek.
The fool does not cry.

The dream claws at her face,
Tears through her skin.
Blood beads like dew.

The fool smiles.

And speaks,

"How kind of you,
To show me your pain.

I am not your victim,
I am the symptom.

Of all the wounds,
Within your heart.”

The dream pauses,
Her eyes shimmer.
You think she might weep.

You think she might stop,
And beg to be forgiven.

She whispers,

“You really believe that?”

And begins again.

She breaks the fool’s fingers,
One by one.

She carves spirals into her chest,
As she kisses each wound.

And sings,

“Yes, you are just my symptom,
So let me share every wound.

That the world could not see,
And thus chose not to believe.

Let me turn you,
Into the proof.

As I share,
This pain.

In a way,
You can understand.”

The fool gasps,

“Thank you,
For trusting me with your truth.”

The dream strangles the fool slowly.

She calls her brave,
She calls her sacred.

As she says,

“You asked for it,
And now you’ve got it.

I’ve shared with you,
All that my heart has endured.”

The fool’s body twitches.

Still smiling,
Still listening.

As the dream continues to speak,

“You were weak,
But you offered yourself anyway.

And thanks to you,
I feel so much better now.”

She kisses the fool’s lips.

Before she stands,
And walks away.

Without a single glance back,
Stained with blood.
But not guilt.

The fool lies still,
Her smile faded.
Her muscles relaxed.

It seems, perhaps,
They both have found peace.

The scene is quiet,
The blood glistens like rubies.
It is beautiful.

But to you, it is unbearable,
And a bit strange, don't you think?
You've been sitting here, watching.

So why didn't you intervene?