What I Would Say to God

Here's something I've been beating my head against a wall about for a few weeks.
~isaac

What I Would Say to God


In the minutes before I sleep, I pray and in this prayer I say:
Dear lord,
I’m tired. I’m sick of love and sick of being lovesick for individuals who are not lovesick over me. I’m closer to crying when I watch Gone with the Wind or Singing in the Rain. I don’t sing much anymore. I don’t pray enough, I know. I’m working on that. My job isn’t the best and I know you have better things planned for me, so I’m not upset. What makes me upset though is I lost my keys again. If you could, please give me a hint tomorrow when I’m looking around for them. Also tell Bev to get off my back about backing into her car. It was an accident and you know that. She should too. This may be too personal but I’ve been curious about this lately: did your bones click along the spikes when they were driven into your hands or was it a clean break? Sorry, probably not appropriate to ask that. Sorry, I’m not good at this type of thing. I just want to be there with you, you know. Not as in also crucified. I can’t honestly say I want or wanted that, but I think it helps to have a visual. Seems more real that way, more stunning. As if that bloody blossom of your palm cupping the inserted metal were a way of understanding why I bump into my neighbors’ cars when I’ve been drinking or why the kid at the corner house was found face down in his neighbor’s backyard without clothes on. I don’t mean to sound condemnatory or critical. Just need something to see. Need to witness your face wince while you most likely mutter a prayer to your Father to save you, to make it less painful, although you didn’t mean you weren’t willing to continue. I’m less of a man. You’re more. So when I say, I want to see your side spill out, blood folding around the guard’s spear, I mean my hands couldn’t hold onto each other tighter. I mean if I didn’t pray as if an ocean were tearing me away from the shoreline or I want to say butterflies do this when they fold their wings together or it would be a sin not to touch you, place my ear on your lips and listen for any ocean. Your skull must be made of music. Your tongue the indigo of my dreams. For every artery, ten small tractors pushing uphill. So I pray that you might need me the way I would press your mouth to my ear hoping for the miracle of sound.