God Will Never Love Me The Way He Loves You,

Dirt road Polna droga

northern lights photographed from space

The Winter, Alexandre Calame, 1851

it is slowly getting brighter outside.

the horror clawing at me as my eyes snap open,

terrified of images that are intangible

and cannot harm me any longer.

it is slowly getting brighter outside.

the wind keeps reaching through the open window of my car. she is trying to rip my heart out from under my seatbelt.

I wonder what she wants with it.

I think I shall never forget the first time

seeing my mother’s new name

on a package with mine

I think she is getting better.

so am I.

so hold me on the way down,

and do me no harm,

i cause myself enough injury

from day to day, love

“i’m sorry,” I whisper desperately.

i’m sorry for feeling too much.

I’m sorry that it spills out of me uncontrolled, violently.

i’m sorry I was never handled gently.

i’m sorry nobody ever taught me what love is.

and I would rip myself apart for you,

crack open my ribcage and let you

take whatever you wanted.

but you have been teaching me

that you do not need me to,

that I do not need me to.

on the two angels that visited me at work

matching white coats, dirty from being on earth too long; a kaleidoscope of color inside the younger one’s hood

they are mean to each other, but that’s just how angels are. it’s all they know. the taller one rolls its eyes— all of them— every time the younger one can’t make up xer mind. the younger calls it a slur in a language no one can speak.

more than a few dollars short for the wire cutters and sealant they need, so I hand them a twenty.

the taller one insists it doesn’t know me, I don’t see how that matters, so I tell it, “it’s a gift.”

but the word “gift” feels like the word “offering”

a last ditch attempt to appease a god who ignored me all my life

maybe this is a last piece; a last peace, a treaty.

and echoes in my mind whisper:

“be kind to strangers

lest they be angels in disguise”