Hell is Her

There is a broken thread in the spools of blue that gathered at the base of her jacket. She saw all that was to unravel and felt unglued from the human she once was. In an instant, she became a scarecrow, a clown of the field. But this is no clown of God, no martyr to offer herself to the God of her ancestors.

No, she became the laughing stock, guarding crops that you did not even attempt to sow. The ones you so carelessly planted with false seeds in minds so fertile as to accept the fecal dribble you let sore from your mouth.

So when she says “I hate you,” she means you have made her into that spineless scarecrow who cannot protect that fucking field she never wanted in the first place. She hates you for making her into a person she never knew could exist, let alone become.

So when the world remembers her, she will gouge out her button eyes and sewn-on smile, to forget and never see the limp existence of a woman hell bent on never knowing herself.

Do not ask after her again.

(Allusion to Tomie dePaola’s “The Clown of God” children’s story)