The Death of A God

To the Infant Who Drew Her First Breath with My Lungs,

I climbed to the top of a mountain today and killed a god.

I hoped he was the one holding up the world

as I took the knife from my chest and plunged it into him.

He was smaller than I expected.

He was like me.

I went to the nearest tree and began to dig up its roots.

It spoke to me and said:

Tell me your secrets.

            I told it of the bed in the back room of my father’s house

            where unspeakable things occurred:

            wandering hands and stepbrothers and apples and honey.

            Years of sunken therapist couches and crayons on paper and

            where did he touch you did he touch you here point to where he touched you

            have still not cleared the fog in my head.

            I spoke of the black journal tucked away in my bottom drawer—

            full of poetry and dried crumbling rose petals,

            except for the pages in the back of the journal

            written in black ink with haste

            as I tried to convince myself to put down the razor

            and pick up a pen instead.

           (Sometimes it worked.)

Tell me more.

            I have pressed my lips against eight other lips in my eighteen years of life

            and I have disappointed every single one.

            I was fifteen when the sleep stopped coming.

            I would lie awake to watch the sun rise

            because my mind was drowning and my wrists ached

            and there was a tension in my chest that only got worse when I closed my eyes.

            It was then that I broke up with my first boyfriend.

            I didn’t know how to say there were creatures trying to kill me in my head.

            The first time I kissed a girl was in a dorm room

            barefoot and freezing.

            My hair was dripping down onto the carpet as I leaned forward

            and redefined the person I thought I was.

            I haven’t talked to her in months.

            I don’t know what to say.

           The first time a boy said he loved me was in the front seat of a car.

           I knew words could hurt more than those damned sticks and stones

           so I said it back.

           I broke up with him on prom night six months later in the same front seat

           and somehow managed to say:

           I’m sorry, but I could never love you.

            I went to my mother and slapped her across the face.

            She reeked of cigarette smoke and court orders and custody agreements and gin.

            I screamed.

            You fucked me up.

            You made it impossible for me to trust anyone.

            You made it impossible for me to love.

           And I talked of my brother’s ashes

           now mixed with the dirt underneath my fingernails.

           I used to have nightmares of him rising from his grave—

           clawing his way to the surface, whole and complete,

           a miracle, a resurrection, a chance at life.

           I always woke up screaming.

I stopped digging.

I touched the tree’s roots with my bleeding hands.

Dear child, there is so much you do not know.

I am sorry this life will cause you pain.

I am sorry you will wish your lungs

will permanently deflate.

I am sorry your world will seem

small enough to contain you.

I am sorry they cannot protect you enough.

I am sorry I cannot protect you.

I am sorry.

I said, I killed a god today.

Only the god listened.

Sincerely,

The Girl Who Is Still Breathing with Your Lungs