PROSE POETRY
The Hate-Blanket
Bitter Comfort
The blanket clutched tight, pulled up chin high. Her clenched hands frozen, unwilling to loosen their grip.
Beautiful, petrified wood.
Drawn up a little more, touching her bottom lip. Straight teeth gnaw, like a rat, at the border. The old blanket tastes of jealousy, loathing, and contempt.
Deep satisfaction.
Another tug and the blanket settles under her nose, the wetness of the blanket’s edge halts the sharp exhale of hot fetid breath.
The smell of victory lingers there.
Higher still, her nose now covered, the stench of malice fills the space.
She smiles and inhales.
Sweet roses on a summer day.
She jerks the blanket above her head and the sting of hot tears flow, seeping through slits of swollen eyelids, soaking the blanket. It grows heavy.
Weighted satisfaction.
With a final motion, the blanket is heaved over her head. She holds it taut as big, guttural, wet sobs, invade the silence.
Her heart swells with accomplishment.
It has taken years for the blanket to engulf her and now she welcomes its comfort.
