Nightmare talk
I am a child. My hair is short. My parents love me and are cooking dinner for me. I collect injured bugs and lizards before going inside.
I am an adult. My hair is long. I am bitter. Wingless insects, lizards without tails. Stiff. Dry. Dead. I dutifully return them all to the fire. Before the flames can touch them, they crawl away. Fly, scatter. Not alive. Still dead. But now I cannot mourn them. I try to grab them but they're already gone. The dead have walked away from me.
I am frustrated I even care of dead bugs and their fate.