Hillary Clinton Owes You Nothing

There are quite a few active Hillary haters infesting our political landscape demanding all sorts of things from Hillary Clinton. From demands that she ‘own up’ to her role in her loss, to even more forceful demands that she disappear from the political scene all-together. Quite frankly, I have had my fill of outraged white men ranting about how she was not endearing enough to win their votes. Case in point: we have the ‘political director’ for Montel Williams excoriating her nearly a YEAR after the election for not being ‘endearing’ enough in her interview with Anderson Cooper from CNN.


Hillary Clinton is not your bitch. She is not some doll for you to manipulate. You can try to ‘pull her string’ to get her to tell her story in the way you want it told, but it is a hopeless endeavor. She is not a ‘Chatty Cathy’ doll with pre programmed responses designed to make you feel awesome about your role in harming her candidacy. She does not have to beg your permission to tell her story. And she can tell it ANY DAMN WAY she wants to. She is a free woman.

These white men who expect her to ‘hide in the woods’ because she could not ‘appeal’ to them, have absolutely nothing to say about Trump’s appeal. Why? Well, he is a man. Nobody expects him to be endearing, appealing, beautiful, quiet yet loud, assertive yet not bossy, perfect yet not ‘too polished’, to be intelligent yet not emasculating by their very competence. I am entirely tired of hearing the cries of the mediocre male, loudly demanding everything under the sun from a woman they have shit on for 25 years.

So, I will leave you with my poem that I wrote for Hillary. And know this. Hillary does not owe you shit, and she does not need your permission to speak, to tell her own damn story. I know it upsets you that she has held a mirror up to the patriarchy, that she still has millions of loyal fans who would SUPPORT HER AGAIN if she chose to run. But you know what? We simply have no fucks left to give you. Buy your own fucks.

For Hillary:

Is the world my grave?

Should I hide in loss and refuse human touch?

My proud stance in defeat induces outrage,

they eat my tears, and drink my blood.

Lean on my losses like the veriest crutch.

Should I simply die?

Maybe stop the blood from flowing, to pay your cost?

The fact that I breathe seems to facilitate,

rending of garments; revelries in my loss,

fainting couches and embers of hate…

Do you want me to hide in the woods?

A lonely old woman just picking her way

through the brambles in the wilderness

of lies, and attacks, and abuse that lay

on the path of most resistance?

Shall I dig the hole real deep?

How far beneath the earth should my living body rest?

You’d send me to the place where old women go

when old men would rather see them no more?

Quietly dying on the brink of the crest.

No, the world is not my grave.

I shall not die in shame.

The woods are too quiet to keep me contained.

I will burn up the world until my light dies,

I rise again like the Phoenix, unrestrained.