I shaved my head and asked God to scatter my hair into the wind, so that Patience could hold my hand again and that I would be whole. Unbroken and unfaltering. But he never answered. So my hair grew long and I cried for seven hours. My tears turned to sap and my skin to bark. I was stuck. Feet down into the ground and grass covered my shins and fingernails. You left and came back with an axe. To cut me into pieces and burn me. “You will keep me warm,” you said. Patience made you dinner and I had to watch from the flames. The orange licked me pure and clean. But I didn’t cry. I let my sap seep into the chimney and coat the bricks in tar, clogging the top, filling your lungs with poisonous smoke. Wrath stopped by and he hung his coat and took me by the hand, asking where I would like to scatter my ashes. I said that I didn’t care so he said, “I will ask God.”
I cried for seven hours and kept my feet in the ground.