Apr 2015
April 1st.
Dear ex God,
I know I sent you my goodbye letter a long time ago, but I've exchanged the release of some neurotransmitters with the release of my pent up anger.
Because I refuse to talk to you sober.
Because you don't deserve to be on my mind when I'm sober.
Because I have my current god to calm the wars in my head when I'm sober.
But the wars have just started again and I came back.
I came back to tell you this: *******.
Last week I learnt that in his sleep, Gabriel came to your last prophet and split his chest open. He split his chest open and tore out his heart; only to wash it and pour a bowl of wisdom and belief into his chest before closing it back up again. My professor told us you made that happen to relieve him of his pain. He told us that you gave him that miracle because he deserved it.
I'm here to tell you that I, your old friend; I, the older version of the girl who loved to make bets and point out the ironic moments you put in my daily life; I, the girl who grew up with anger built up inside of her because the god she talked to changed his phone number, stopped checking his voicemail, and moved to another place that wasn't her heart, the god she made bets with found loopholes in her words after she gave him what she promised to give, and the god who did nothing as her bad thoughts were taking over her, is here to tell you one thing: *******.
I am not one to brag about the things I've done or the things I sacrificed. But right now, I am not sober.
Right now, I do not care that what I've done for you doesn't come close to what your prophet did for you. I gave you something. You gave me nothing.
Right now, I do not care if my words contradict my personality.
Right now, I do not care that I can taste the bitterness I feel towards you on the insides of my lips.
Last week I learnt that in his sleep, Gabriel came to your last prophet and split his chest open. You gave him a miracle and instead of smiling and praising your powers like I was supposed to, I felt anger build up inside of me. Instead of feeling happy for him, I felt sorry for myself.
Where were those miracles of yours when I used to scream into my towel and hit my head onto the floor just so I could wake up the next morning and not remember what the fresh cuts on my body were from?
Where were those miracles of yours when I would let go of my mother's hard grip and cross the street before she could dig her nails into my wrists again?
Where were those miracles of yours when I used to scream for my bad thoughts to go away, only for the screams to be joined by laughter of disbelief and laughter at the irony in all that I'm feeling?
The people you sent me were no angels. There were no angels in the form of humans, no voice in my head telling me that you had a plan for me, there were no clear signs of what I was supposed to do, and there were no miracles.
The people you sent me were mirages. The voice that told me what to do was mine. The signs I saw in things were the decisions already made by my subconscious.
Last week I learnt that in his sleep, Gabriel came to your last prophet and split his chest open. He split his chest open and tore out his heart; only to wash it and pour a bowl of wisdom and belief into his chest before closing it back up again. My professor told us you made that happen to relieve him of his pain. He told us that you gave him that miracle because he deserved it. And I'm here to say: I don't need you. I can do that all on my own.
Dear ex God,
I know I sent you my goodbye letter a long time ago, but I've exchanged the release of some neurotransmitters with the release of my pent up anger.
Because I refuse to talk to you sober.
Because you don't deserve to be on my mind when I'm sober.
Because I have my current god to calm the wars in my head when I'm sober.
But the wars have just started again and I came back.
I came back to tell you this: *******.
Last week I learnt that in his sleep, Gabriel came to your last prophet and split his chest open. He split his chest open and tore out his heart; only to wash it and pour a bowl of wisdom and belief into his chest before closing it back up again. My professor told us you made that happen to relieve him of his pain. He told us that you gave him that miracle because he deserved it.
I'm here to tell you that I, your old friend; I, the older version of the girl who loved to make bets and point out the ironic moments you put in my daily life; I, the girl who grew up with anger built up inside of her because the god she talked to changed his phone number, stopped checking his voicemail, and moved to another place that wasn't her heart, the god she made bets with found loopholes in her words after she gave him what she promised to give, and the god who did nothing as her bad thoughts were taking over her, is here to tell you one thing: *******.
I am not one to brag about the things I've done or the things I sacrificed. But right now, I am not sober.
Right now, I do not care that what I've done for you doesn't come close to what your prophet did for you. I gave you something. You gave me nothing.
Right now, I do not care if my words contradict my personality.
Right now, I do not care that I can taste the bitterness I feel towards you on the insides of my lips.
Last week I learnt that in his sleep, Gabriel came to your last prophet and split his chest open. You gave him a miracle and instead of smiling and praising your powers like I was supposed to, I felt anger build up inside of me. Instead of feeling happy for him, I felt sorry for myself.
Where were those miracles of yours when I used to scream into my towel and hit my head onto the floor just so I could wake up the next morning and not remember what the fresh cuts on my body were from?
Where were those miracles of yours when I would let go of my mother's hard grip and cross the street before she could dig her nails into my wrists again?
Where were those miracles of yours when I used to scream for my bad thoughts to go away, only for the screams to be joined by laughter of disbelief and laughter at the irony in all that I'm feeling?
The people you sent me were no angels. There were no angels in the form of humans, no voice in my head telling me that you had a plan for me, there were no clear signs of what I was supposed to do, and there were no miracles.
The people you sent me were mirages. The voice that told me what to do was mine. The signs I saw in things were the decisions already made by my subconscious.
Last week I learnt that in his sleep, Gabriel came to your last prophet and split his chest open. He split his chest open and tore out his heart; only to wash it and pour a bowl of wisdom and belief into his chest before closing it back up again. My professor told us you made that happen to relieve him of his pain. He told us that you gave him that miracle because he deserved it. And I'm here to say: I don't need you. I can do that all on my own.
