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By Lev P
I can brilliantly turn the common person into my god, the hard part is reminding myself of their meek mortality.
I can’t help it. It’s so difficult when I’m praying to her, but she’s standing right in front of me, telling me “I don’t know what you want me to do?”
Last summer my god was a blond girl with curly hair and brown eyes. My god thought in music instead of words. My god wrote songs and sang them, only sometimes, but when she did, I was the first to hear.
Last summer, my god had been clean for nine months. My god laid with me in the fenced-up field where we were always being watched.
She counted my freckles, “At least seven,” she told me with a smile much brighter than the one o’clock sun.
Last summer, my god and I made plans to escape together from the rest of the world. She would dance in the room with me, and I’d play with her hair, sitting hidden behind the closet.
I stared at her for hours trying to figure all of her out, but even then, I knew it was impossible.
I kissed a body which was her prison, in a room that was mine. Sometimes she pretended she was free but eventually, she would float back down to reality.
I know more than I feel that she isn't actually floating at all.
She is falling.
I left that cage a long time ago, and so did she, but at the time she still believed part of her would always feel imprisoned.
For years, my god was stuck on a plane, running away from herself. It was the type of running away that feels easy. It was the type of running away that she could pay for on the street,
Nine months ago, the plane landed, and she went home, but everything had changed
Nine months ago my god began grieving.
We all have those facts in our lives that aren’t facts to anyone, but ourselves.
Facts that are based on experience rather than science.
My God knew, for a fact, that love was a dangerous and imaginary feeling.
The more I tried to love her, the more she tried to anger me, to scare me, to hurt me.
I saw right through her sharp words,
but understanding why she stuck a knife in my heart
doesn’t mean it hurt any less when she did it.
“God is dead” she shouted at me, she wanted me to start grieving her while she was still standing there before my eyes,
she had to force me to leave under her terms before I left her on my own.
She preached the details of her funeral for half an hour while I silently walked by her side feeling frozen in time or maybe I was praying I could be.
She described the graceful markings on the casket and the dark furnish of the wood. What fabric the insides would be made of, the blue and the velvet and the dead body inside of it.
I didn’t leave. I followed her as she walked. One foot in front of the other, walking laps around the gym, around the field, around the hall,
The knife she stuck in my heart was still there.
I was dripping blood from my chest, but the knife in my heart was the only thing keeping me together.
You kept pushing the knife further inside of me, but I stood there and watched.
None of this was wrong, you were only scared.
You were God and you were scared,
but somehow I knew for a fact, you could still do no wrong.
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