When my grandfather died, I prayed. I waited until my dorm room fell dark and I clasped my hands and bowed my head and said God, please don’t punish Papa for having a piece of shit grandson. This was your plan, wasn’t it? Isn’t it all in your design? I'm sorry I don’t believe. I'm sorry that even now, I’m doubting that this will do anything, I’m sorry for doubting that my papa has a soul that will go to your loving hands. I'm sorry that I only reach out in crisis. I'm sorry that you’re a background thought.
Did you want this for Satan, too? Immoral heart, immoral mind. Did you decide that he should be affected by such evil thoughts? Did you know you needed an adversary to prove yourself against? Is that all I am? Am I a lesson for my good Christian cousins to learn from? Well, that didn’t work out. I think my baby cousins think the world of me, and Kevin likes me, and Patrick is down the same destructive route that Sean walked. Is that what you wanted? Is that what you intended?
My aunt and uncle got mad at me when Mikey said he wanted a tattoo. He’s named after one of your angels, isn’t he? Michael, Angel of x. I don’t know. I never went to communion. Was that part of your plan too? Why are you so present in my life when I never believed in you to begin with? Get out of my head. I hate feeling like this. I hate that every action I take feels like a moral quandary.
Who do I blame if not you? Where do these thoughts come from? Why am I so convinced that I’m evil? Why are you doing this to Me? I don’t want to be sad, God. I want to be a good person. I don’t want to be some Angel who felt too hard. I don’t want to be so individualized. I hate being noticed. I want to be a blind helper, I want to be not your hand but a mere cell in your body. I don’t want people to examine me. I hate the thought of them finding my flaws.
I don’t want to be a monster, please don’t cast me down from heaven. I’m sorry that I’m drunk right now. I’m sorry that I want to kill myself, I know that’s a sin. I’m not being serious. I was serious in high school, but we’re past that, aren’t we? Why are you still sending me these thoughts? Why do you want me to be unholy? I didn’t go to church enough for this. I don’t want to believe in you but I feel so unbearably wrong when I say that.
You’re not real. Why is that worse! Why is it worse when I decided this for myself? Can you please pull my strings? Can you please tell me that this is all your fault? I hate feeling like this. This can’t be my own brain, please, please send me a sign and tell me to my face that you’re disappointed. I’m sorry that I’m the newest Satan. I’m sorry that you need someone to defy your will. Please be real. Please let me fall to my knees in a confession booth and kiss your feet like Bisclavret and beg for forgiveness. Please tell me that I’m no longer a wolf. Please tell me that I’m holy again.
This can’t be me. Can it? Is this really just how I live from my own brain, from my own chemistry? Why can’t this be fate? Write in stone, please. Tell me that I can’t change. Tell me that this isn’t my fault, that I’m not refusing to be better. Please tell me that I don’t have to try harder, that this is just how it is, that I’m not tired because I’m lazy but because you want me to be. Please tell me that I’m an enemy of heaven. Please tell me that I can never be holy.
When did Lucifer lose his name? Am I there yet? I don’t want to be Saint Catherine anymore. I want to be Jezebel. I want to be Travis. I want this to be on purpose. Please tell me that I live like this on purpose.
Make me useful! Make this make sense!