Our Father, who art in heaven
I have some confessions.
I am terrified.
Of what?
Everthing.
I break into plague-like bubonic hives when I worry about THE future, my future,
any future because it does not involve any of the nows.
Moments of newness and unclarity, of strangers and distant conversations of topics I know not of yet,
weeks in agony trying to earn money for rent,
days waiting for a sign, in the form of a plus or minus, to dictate whether or not
a parasite grows in my womb.
Father, I sin daily
for I am a glutton
in my eyes.
I see flaws in my appearence,
though no horrible disfigurements exist;
in my thoughts, this is even more unforgivable,
the invention of sorrows that are not mine,
the pitiful desire for perfection.
I feel I do not deserve the wonders that I have.
Grant me the ability to feel secure and grateful
rather than worthless and guilty.
Oh brother, woe is nobody
for all is too good to waste,
yet nearly impossible to entirely feel.