May Fifth

When I was younger, I had an imaginary friend. His name was God. Things were great until one day he stopped answering my phone calls. So I turned my back on fairytales and lost my faith in humanity. And, for good measure, I gave my virginity to the first man who would take it. And I drank the blood of Christ until I was inebriated. And I ate of His body until I was pronounced legally dead. But they singled me out as a heretic and tortured me with triviality. “I will not serve,” we both said, but he was talking about the Creator and I was talking about the table with the bitching brats. I went home and the normalcy of folding laundry caused me physical harm. You smiled at me, but all I could offer you was a grimace. And you told me you liked my dress, so I fell asleep in it with visions of you ripping it off me. The next day we went walking in the woods and you held my brain instead of my hand. You laid me down on the cold, wet dirt and I thought you were going to make love to me. But you covered me with leaves that smelt of autumn and walked away, laughing and sighing at my childlike foolishness. The glitter-rain would have been beautiful if it wasn’t acidic. The droplets burned holes in your skin and I saw right through you. And they singled me out as a romantic and tortured me with truths. Love – the four-letter lie. We’re all murderers and we don’t even know it. The destructive tornado of your words rips through my sleepy little soul. And I have no evacuation plan. You incited a riot in my heart, but were nowhere to be found when the cops came asking questions.