when I write, I cast a line for God.

God would not give me all of this hope to choke on.
my death anxiety has stilled because every time death is mentioned I do not believe it’s real.
death will not come for me.
not in the way it comes for everyone else.
God will reveal the truth to me and finally, finally, I will understand how my joints fit into one another and how it is not cruel for God to flush the population of the planet down His toilet bowl.
there is nothing here that will tell me the truth.
God, God, God, one day God will stop the overflow of deceit by omission.
tell me. tell me, God!
tell me.
tell me why you boil me until my flesh is tender but do not consume me.
tell me why you pump fog into my skull until I am too tired to move.
tell me why you demand I follow you when you are nowhere in sight.
damn it. damn it. damn it.
how do I know the difference between my fear and your concern?
take it away. take it away. please, God.
take my fear away before I die.

the vanishing point

I didn’t realize how much could change.
I like to think that I saw signs along the way
But God kept everything from me.
My vision has changed but I stayed the same.
As if the color wheel swapped.
But nothing is as simple as cool and warm colors.
I don’t know what to focus on.
I want more than anything for God to carry me.
But that’s childish.
Because there are no happy endings.
There are no endings at all.

I can see the bright white promise of my talent.
But all of it is out of my reach.
And hope is foolish and God was never
Going to hold me in his arms.

I used to think that pain meant something.
Redemption gave it purpose.
But it’s endless.
I never saw a God that created a world
Like a point on a line with pain flowing
infinitely out.

In therapy, Nicole and I discussed
distraction techniques. I always thought
that was strange.
Everything but the pain is a distraction.
I’ve heard that that’s a lie.
That my anxiety preaches that pain is the
truth and everything else is child’s play.
But how am I supposed to believe them?
Didn’t the devil send them to me
to tell me that?
Isn’t pain the conviction of the Holy Spirit?
Hasn’t God created the suffering inside of me?
Isn’t hell real? Isn’t my pain eternal?
Don’t I deserve that without God?

I don’t understand how it’s possible
For me to tell myself the answers so easily
Without believing them.
Lily said that she always saw my struggle
with hell as the struggle of someone trying
really hard to believe a lie.

Writing about this feels stale.
I don’t want to fight the same battle forever.
What I want is for God to be real
And for God to show me the truth.
But the very idea of truth is illogical.
That’s what Spock murmurs into my brain.
So who is God? Is he Spock?

I want there to be a Grim Reaper
And I want him to be Jesus
And I want to feel redeemed when I pass
Into death
And subvert the panic altogether.
Maybe God will give me that.

Reminder

Just don’t act pathetic.
Just don’t act pathetic.
Just don’t act pathetic.
Just don’t act pathetic.
Just don’t act pathetic.
Just don’t act pathetic.
Just don’t act pathetic.
Just don’t act pathetic.
Just don’t act pathetic.
Just don’t act pathetic.
Just don’t act pathetic.
Just don’t act pathetic.
Just don’t act pathetic.
Just don’t act pathetic.
Just don’t act pathetic.
Just don’t act pathetic.
Just don’t act pathetic.
Just don’t act pathetic.
Just don’t act pathetic.
Just don’t act pathetic.
Just don’t act pathetic.

Nature Walk

Trees are growths in the earth and grass is like hairy mold on a pumpkin left out too long. I’m angry and sad and I feel empty, but I guess I’d rather be outside than in my room, my fucking dark box that reminds me of bad trips and mildew even though there isn’t any. The sun is majestic and I’m tiny, and it burns me a little, bakes me around the edges, crisping my skin like a potato chip. This is California and I’m glad it’s dry here because if it were humid I’d feel even more gross than I already do all the time. Let me face the sun, close my eyes. The sun is yellow colored, like my memory of CSSSA. I wish it would burn all the acne off my face.

The leaves on the grapevines are turning red, slowly, starting at the tips, like they’ve been dipped in blood. I hope I look that beautiful when I die.