True Crime

by Samantha Kolesnik

Maybe when God created me, he disliked his creation and turned off the part connecting me to him, like an artist who didn’t want to sign a bad painting.

My flesh was a monument to bad things I wished I could forget.

Traveling pigs and puppies, God and Moses, those were all dreams, just the same. Only crime was true.

All of nature began to hum along with her refrain, echoing her pain.

All men did was rape, kill, eat, and fuck, as far as I could see, and it’s not like the fields knew any different. The world was just an echo chamber for man’s sin.

There was no evil in the world that was not man’s work. And there was no man in the world that was not woman’s work.