One time you told me you loved girls who always smiled so I stitched my lips into a grin and as I sat there bleeding on the kitchen floor I wrote with red ink on dirty tile a list of the Reasons Why Things Happen in hopes that you’d come back and take it back and take me back and clean up all the broken glass.
Why why why I’m so sad is because instead of filling myself up I fill you up and it leaves me dry and angry and cracked on your kitchen floor with maraschino cherry juice running sticky down my fingers and there’s not enough ink in the world to say what I need to say.❞
I have never seen who exactly it is that you paper clip your knees,
Melt your hands together and pray to
But I think I know what he looks like
I bet your God is about 5’10”
Bet he weighs 185
Probably stands the way a high school diploma does when it’s next to a GED
I bet your God, I bet your God has a mother.
I bet he wears flannel shirts with no sleeves
And a fanny pack that says words like “getter done”
I bet your God
I bet your God plays the banjo
Bet he watches Fox News, Dog the Bounty Hunter,
Voted for John McCain and loves Bill O’Riley
I bet your God lives in Arizona.
I bet his high school served racism in it’s cafeteria
And offered hate speech as a second language
I bet he has a swastika inside of his throat
And racial slurs tattooed to his tongue
Just to make intolerance more comfortable in his mouth
I bet he has a burning cross as a middle finger
And Jim Crow underneath his nails.
Your God is a confederate flag’s wet dream
Conceived on a day when the sky decided to slice her own wrist
I bet your God has a drinking problem
I bet he sees the bottom of a shot glass more often than his own children
I bet he pours whisky on his dreams
Until they taste like good ideas
He probably cusses like an electric guitar with turrets plugged into an ocean
I bet he doubts like a schizophrenic nail gun
Damaging all things that care about him enough to get close
I bet there are angels in heaven with black eyes and broken halos
That claim they fell down the stairs
I bet your God would have made Eve without a mouth
And taught her how to spread her legs
Like a magazine that she will never, ever, ever be pretty enough to be in.
Sooner or later you will realize that you are praying to your own shadow.
That you are standing in front of mirrors
And worshiping your own reflection.
Your God, stole my God’s identity
And I bet he can buy pieces of heaven on Ebay
The next time you bow your head I want you to tell your God
That my God is looking for him.❞