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When It Ends
He will not let me die, and oh, I do hate Him. The sight, the sound, the smell, the feel of Him makes me sick. I would rather slit my wrists than look at Him again, but no matter how fast and how heavy the blood flows He will keep me alive. I cannot die, and I am trapped in this boy's body, trapped as God's consort, trapped and never free. And yet, it is ending. People torture, people kill, but God is cruel in ways that no other could ever dream. He is horrid. He tears apart couples, He tears apart lives, He tears souls. He strings up, He tortures. He pokes, He prods, He spears, He kills. And although He loves me—for all of His love for me—He has ruined me. I know—I am aware—that I have seen all number of beauties, of joys, of magic. But thinking, looking back, I cannot remember them because hate and current torture fill my thoughts. More years than many have been too long. I hate Him. He knows it. He knows it because I show Him, I tell Him, I carry hate on my shoulders, across my eyes, and over my heart. It hurts Him. He can stand my apathy, my lack of love, but He cannot stand my hate. So He ignores it. He pretends that nothing is wrong, pulling me along with Him, play-acting. I know God very well—I know who He is, how He acts, even how He thinks. I know that inside His head He is torn: because He is hurt, but He is also deluded by His own grandeur. He loves me. He thinks that He can delude us both, convince us both that all is well. He has created a delicate fantasy, and only He believes it, and I do not as of yet have the power to break it. And I know I am going mad, and my time is running short. Once I would have feared this end, but now it holds promise: it may be the end that I pray for with every breath I take. I hope that the final fall is swift, I hope that there is only silence once it is all over, and I pray that it will soon be done with. And until that moment, time passes. He still has the nerve to touch me, that bastard. He touches me with all our old familiarity, as if nothing is wrong, as if my swearing, my hate is only a farce. I want to strike back—I do. I want to beat Him until he bleeds, but I do not have that power. Sometimes, it is easier just to lie still. And time passes slowly, and my head hurts more and more. There are these moments—these moments when my mind is the busy swirl of a galaxy—thoughts are aflame—and I can make no sense of it. I have no control of the disintegration of my mind. I do not want control. I want to be free and alone. I can only wait. And we see so few others now. I think He is scared of them. I think He knows that they will see though this and know that I hate Him and His weak mirage will fall. Animals are magic. Animals can distract me from God. Animals can purr, scratch, bite. God lets me touch them, lets me know them. God allows me that much. And next in time comes the periods of blackness, of no noise, of silence when I have reached alone. Those moments comfort me. And it comes faster. And I think that through His love, God has come to hate me. I make His life hell, and every time His brow creases it delights me. This is the power that I have over Him, the power to harm Him, the power to move Him. I love to control. I have learned that I love to harm. And I am deteriorating. Deteriorate. Deteriorating. In entropy. Die. And die and die and die because—because Because, because His secrets are secrets like no others. Ability. Mobility. Touch taste know make be the universe's God. I wanted to know him because I wanted to be him. Tiny boy God's consort and how they love him, how they dance, how they die. Billion of people—gone at the word yes. I made my choice. I sinned. He sinned, and He is God. And there is more black and hate, unfiltered. I wish that God could die—die as that girl died, silently, without a second for protest, and that the loss of life would be equally unthought of. I wish that He could suffer, like those that He has made suffer. The universe is a wonderful thing—bucket of sand—creation of chance—one long prayer. The universe is improbable, impossible, inoperable. It is a child's playground—spoiled cold cruel child and I hate him You think you know hate but you don't. You think you know suffering—you have no idea. You think you are mad but this is madness—this is madness—this is boy driven to the edge-over-edge-over-back again and you have no idea. I hate Him. And I can feel that these are the final moments—this is time slipping through fragile young fingers. It doesn't hurt, not compared to what he has done to me. It is welcome. It is kind. And then: silence. Amen. |