Do you sing? What color are your eyes? What do stars taste like? How quiet was it before you made us? I just want to get to know you better. This can be like a speed-dating round, you know, except I’ll do all the talking, I guess. I’m eating Wendy’s right now and sitting in a parking lot. I just figured, if I was gonna talk to myself, I’d talk to you, too. Are you lonely? I know there are over six billion of us to talk to, but are you lonely? I listen for you, sometimes, to see if you’re asking for anyone, but I can’t hear anything. Maybe you’re just not talking to me. That’s okay.
I have some theories about your son. I wonder where he is, and why he hasn’t come back. My first theory is because you still haven’t forgiven yourself for what happened to him, so you’ve devoted your eternity to tending to his wounds. That’s beautiful, if so. I hope you two are happy. My second theory, is that he’s been here all along, in different bodies and different parts of the world. Maybe he’s got a garden in London somewhere, and he doesn’t have a lot of friends, except for a few, who notice the pure white light in his eyes, but shrug it off and blame it on the sun. Sometimes, I wonder if I’ve met him by accident. Maybe I brushed past him on the bus, or pressed my hand into his back while trying to squeeze through a crowd. I don’t think so, though. I think I would have felt that kind of heaven in my hands. I think I would have noticed.
Are you scared of us? Are you ashamed? I’m not accusing, I’m just curious. Did you plan for this? I mean, some of us are terrible. Some of us are just wicked to the core, and I don’t understand how you can love them like you love everyone. I think about how your son turned his cheek for angry hands, and I can’t imagine. I am shaking with rage at the thought of letting someone do that to me. Forgiveness is powerful, I know that, but so is smashing things and setting people straight. I’m just so angry, sometimes. I don’t know what to do with the hate, because it tastes so bad, but it burns if I spit it out. Do you feel anger? You must. I mean, you have to. There are so many of us who have destroyed you, used you, manipulated you, forged your face and worn your clothes. What do you do with it? Lightning? Are you the thunder? I guess it isn’t angels bowling, but wouldn’t that be cool. My memories of you smell like old wood and the smoke from candles. I looked for you in church on Sundays, and briefly wondered if that was your light in the stained glass windows. Can I be honest? I only believe in you sometimes. One time, I was on the verge of a panic attack and crying into my pillow, so I started talking (praying) to you. I don’t remember what I said, but when I was finished, the bees left my stomach, and I felt clean. I fell asleep sighing. I believed in you then, I really did. I could almost feel you.
Some days, you’re all I look for. Some days, I can’t conjure your name for the life of me. Please don’t be mad, I’m just being honest.
I think I miss you. I think people have ruined you. I think I’m a little afraid of you. I think you’ll forgive me.