Bernie

He died today and I am not sad.

He called me “sister” even though I felt no kinship with him.

He made me drink a slurry of ants.

He woke me in the dark mornings with cold buckets of water.

He forced me to walk through showers of grasshoppers, leaping toward every orifice until I felt I might drown under them in the weedy plains.

He twisted my arms behind me and dunked my head into leech riddled waters.

He stuffed my cheeks with chewing tobacco until I wretched.

He ordered me to shuck corn until my fingers bled.

He only allowed me to eat what was left after everyone else ate.

He let his children devour me with their own abuses until I was bruised and exhausted by fear and pain.

He called me “sister” but there was no brotherhood in him.

He died today and I am not sad.

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