Poor Pig Girl

[No routine + non-cool writing + no cheating + tradition + era + reality + suffering + resistance] The hemp rope only picks and breaks at the thinnest point, and bad luck only picks out the misfortune. It's more painful than the TV series, more outrageous than the novel, this is reality. The Loess Plains used a century-old wind blade to carve her into the most despicable appearance. The red bone seams are filled with sour rot from the pig pen, the fingernails are hidden with the unwashable loess, and even the dream is filled with the buzzing of the fluttering wings of flies beside the toilet. She was a grass growing next to the dunghill, but she wanted to break free from this cursed soil. The oil lamp burned out and was put on again. She chewed up the textbook and swallowed it in her belly, thinking that knowledge could boil her blood and evaporate the innate smell of her body. Marriage is another airtight cave dwelling, and the mother-in-law's gaze is like a stick poking into the hole, poking at the tenderest wounds: "the cheap bones raised by raising pigs." The confinement soup is so clear that she can see her withered face. Her mother came over the mountains and ridges carrying a clay pot, and the loess between her fingernails fell on the smooth floor tiles, like splattered blood spots. The can of chicken soup simmered with dignity was inserted into the stainless steel dog bowl with the bones and oil intact. The sound of the impact woke up the sleeping baby.