At Dark, I Become Loathsome

by Eric LaRocca

At night, I become guilty of crimes I haven’t committed, much less even contemplated. I become a caricature of my former self—a creature to be persecuted, loathed, reviled, detested. At nighttime, I’m something to be tortured until condemned—someone completely and forever misunderstood.

I’ve learned that human decency only exists when it’s convenient.

an insidious little insect coiling in the darkest corners of my mind like a tiny metal spring, a well-oiled crank that spins freely and poisons the area around where it’s been planted like a cancer, like a black root to spread further and further until my mind is as dark and as shiny as fresh tar.

Christianity has made sycophants of most of us—lobotomized zombies who will suckle at any available teat even if it’s leaking lighter fluid and we’re holding a torch.