This morning I had coffee with God,
or the divine being, or the top dog..
Whatever you want to call her.
Sometimes I call her a *****.
But that’s the thing about Gods, right?
They are what you need them to be.
So she strolled in around 6:45,
blasting Jay Z’s “Encore” through my Alexa and asked me what the **** I was doing.
It went a little something like this:
“Get your *** up, we need to have a chat.”
“I don’t remember calling you..” I groan as I put my hand over my eyes.
“Yeah well, you never call me anymore.”
“Yeah well, I prefer to think you wouldn’t answer anyway.”
“Been a long time since I’ve heard you say that one… I think you were a kid, still.”
“I dunno.. probably”
“What’s the matter? You look a little hungover?” She asks as she begins to bang the back of a frying pan with a wooden spoon.
“Is that my ******* pan?”
“Yeah, Lp. It sure is. Did you want me to stop?” As she hits the pan harder.
“Okay, okay… what do you want?”
She puts down the pan, hands me a cup of black coffee and sits on the edge of my bed.
“This isn’t you. Not all of you. You’re allowing the parts that are missing as an excuse to crumble. That’s not you. You don’t do this anymore. I raised you better than this.”
“You raised me? You never stepped foot inside that house.”
“Whining over trauma you worked so hard to get past? That’s what we’re doing, now? Fine. Crumble. Drink too much. Push people away by trying to scare them off with your nonsense about being too much. You want a grenade to throw into your life? Fine. I’ll pull the pin and stand clear…”
“Being an accomplice doesn’t really seem like your vibe.”
“You really are a ******* sometimes. Stop trying to rationalize giving in because change is hard, because you miss them, because you’re worried you won’t be someone that someone decides to take a chance on. You are better than the you that you have convinced yourself that you are.”
“What if I’m not? What if this is just… where I am, now?”
“Then you’re a brat, and all the courage you’ve built, has been wasted. Get the **** up. I won’t coddle you next time.”
And just like that,
I blink and she’s gone.
Back to wherever deities go
after dishing out epiphanies,
while leaving no blueprints of how to do so.
I spend a couple more moments
with my face in my pillow,
“99 Problems”
pulsing through an otherwise empty house.
Before I get up,
mutter to myself that she’s a real pain in the ***,
and pour every drop of ***** down the sink.
Clean my kitchen.
Fold the laundry.
Change the sheets..
Because she’s a ****,
but she’s right.