They told me prayers, like incense, rise before You. That night I wrote incest on my wall, and thought, how ironic. It sort of looks like incense. So will You see and respond tonight? Will my shaking body and my unhinged door suffice as prayer?
Since then, since etching the word with tear-stained ink, I haven't known how to pray to You
except when people leave.
Because You saw it. It was not your finger that went to your mouth that night. It was not your voice whispering down at me. It was not your receding footfalls that echoed love-is-your-hang-up and abandonment-is-your-fault and what-the-hell-they-were-only-words. It was his.
And I knew. I knew I never wanted to be deserted again.
So, today I've re-created music (prayed) to You, I've written (prayed) to You, I've cried on the couch, in the car, during the run, on my bed (prayed), I've hurt myself (PRAYED), I've acknowledged my complete idiocy and limitations when it comes to communicating with You (prayed?).
Because she's leaving. And my strength and my certainty and my hope is seeping out of me like blood, like ink, like incense.
Show. Me. What. To. Do...
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