I think
About
How much
I
Hate
You,
I clench my teeth
And fists;
I consider
The punch
Of
Packed words
I would say
To send your stomach
Up into
Your mouth.
I am no saint,
But,
I pray for you instead...
Which sounds so
Fucking
Moronic,
I know.
I know.
I pray:
"God let Him feel love in his belly right now, as if he has eaten the sun, so that he might be so warm he heats a cold house in the heart of a vacant city. God, let beer be good to him and not fickle like it sometimes is. And let him forgive and forget and forgive...me. And let him have love, the deep kind that burrows its roots down into the earth like an oak tree. Let him ride his bike today. Because I read this book once about this guy who had a bike and when he rode it, he felt like he was inside a dream--on the moon--and in Spain all at the same time. So, let him feel that way if that's how he likes to feel or if it benefits him. And of course if it does not...well, make him feel some other way. Because I'm sure you knit him well, right?
Amen."
Sometimes I go on to say really depressing things like:
"Turn back time, God. Fix it, make it right."
Or
"God, I broke it, I broke it, and I hate myself for breaking it. Can't you have mercy and fix my mistakes?"
But when I was
Little,
They said
To me:
"God
Doesn't hear
Selfish
Prayers."
So, I
Don't
Expect much.
I am
No psalmist.
But,
I call
My mom
Every time
I feel
Like
I hate
You.
And
She's so sick of hearing about
How much
I
Hate
You
That
She she tells me to pray
(Perhaps as a last resort)
Because she has no
Medicine left
To say.
She says
God never
Tires
Of hearing about
How I hate you.
Because Jesus loves
Me.
And
Christ
Likes to hear
Our iniquities.
I once heard
A sermon
About
How Abba has this field.
I mean, I guess God
Has all the fucking fields
He wants.
But in this one He takes all your pain
And sows it,
And
He harvests it
Into
Gorgeous things.
Christ told me
Last week
My
Fear
Is a sea
Of
Yellow
Poppies.
I dunno if yellow poppies actually exist,
Or if God's just making things up in
His head again
(Like He always does).
But...it's a nice thought.
I hope my hate
Comes out in
Indian
Paint
Brushes.
So I can stop
My
Hateful heart
From breaking
And
Love
You
Again
[And maybe paint you too].
