Monday, October 9, 2017
She’s yelled herself horse on the steps of City hall. The police killed her son and raped her with a nightstick. Maybe. She’s yelling it at the top of her lungs in January wearing only a contractor bag and a Patagonia vest she got at the group home before it closed.
Does it really matter at that point whether it ‘really happened’ or not? Who are you to ask at that point? You cannot look her in the face. What is it there that terrifies you? You look down, or away and tell yourself she chose this path.
If she just tried harder. If she stayed off the drugs I take in acceptable, purified pharmaceutical form. She must want to be like this, right?
I can’t wait until she grows to 500 feet tall and comes uptown to point her long brown finger nail at you before she turns you into stone.