I struggle because God told me that he doesn't like slackers,
and it is almost winter, and I have to believe in something.
His desk is so tall, I like to sit under it and stare up at where
the edge of the desk meets the ceiling and his hand tapping.
I don't like the cold, but God says that it builds character,
so I trek through it to get to something I once loved and it only
leaves me feeling small.
I was never a child, I told the interviewer when he climbed on
top of me. I was never born, I just appeared.
He wasn't listening anymore, but I kept telling him.
God sank into my skin when I was sleeping one night,
in a church somewhere east of here, and
He speaks to me now.
"God doesn't exist," huffed the Interviewer Man.
There was this man who said that if you spoke to God,
then you were praying. Lots of people pray in snow
And silence, but if they're silent then how does he hear them?
This man also said that if God spoke to you,
then you have schizophrenia.
I don't know what that is.
I asked God and he said that Angels get their names from
God's enemies so he can learn to love them again.
I thought that was lovely, but it didn't answer my question.
The snow is finally melting, and I can go outside again.
I saw a man standing outside my door who looked like
a younger version of Abraham, so I trusted him.
"Is your mom in?" He asked.
Jesus and I are the same height, and we argue over
the same chair at dinner. We take turns.
What's a mom, I ask the man, and I close the door on him
because God told me that sanity is a made up word,
and so is "mom."
By Spring everything will be different, God said.
The hush of midday sank in my lungs and I gulped,
suddenly aware of the time that had passed.
He told me that science is the opposite of the ocean
and the sky is not the only thing that lasts forever.
Time swings on a tire swing in my front yard,
and I run to join it, but God tells me that it's Spring.
The van's coming, the Abraham man is back,
I keep listening, even after he drags me away.
God goes quiet for the first time in years.
I now know what silence is as I lie restrained to a
Today, they are letting me leave.
I think God will forgive me for not listening to him anymore.
I think he understands.