Hel

I do not fear the dark girl
with the half-shadow face.
I think she looks like truth.

Not the golden truth the gods like to wear,
not the shining kind that blinds and boasts,
but the quiet truth
that waits at the bottom of all stories.

They called her monster.
They always do
when a woman does not soften her edges
to make other people comfortable.

Hel does not chase.
Hel does not beg.
Hel does not rise from her throne
to ask to be loved.

She rules what is left behind.
She rules the last breath,
the last word,
the last look someone gives the world
before the door closes.

And still
her realm is not screaming.
It is not fire.
It is not torture.

It is quiet.

A place for the tired.
A place for the ones who were not heroes,
not chosen,
not saved at the last moment by a god
who suddenly decided they were worth something.

Hel keeps the ordinary dead.
Which means
Hel keeps most of us.

There is something honest about her kingdom.
No glory.
No songs.
No second chances to become legendary.

Just rest.
Just darkness.
Just the long exhale
after a life that was sometimes beautiful
and sometimes unbearable.

If I ever meet her,
I think I will not kneel.

I think I will sit beside her
like two women
who have both been misunderstood.

And I will say,
I know what it is
to live half in shadow,
to be called cold
when you are simply not afraid
of endings.

And maybe she will look at me
with that half-dark, half-light face
and move over slightly on her throne,
making room.