carpe diem

on liquid faith and faith itself

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delicately, like tiny, pale fingertips stained   orange do reach tentatively for a mother they held in another life,
dinner is served; a bag of chips and a cup of water, all a little one can prepare and all a little one has on her mind, as no one was there to steer her away.
genuine, she prayed and called out to someone, anyone each day and night, as six o'clocks and nine o'clocks melted slowly and seamlessly together.
little hands clasped together, gripping themselves as if there was nothing else to be held,
she endlessly and relentlessly called out to  the only one powerful enough to answer, though endlessly and relentlessly, an answer never came.
she was taught to pray and she was promised a path, a future better than the present in which she lived.
she signed away her hope, her life, and her soul, and she watched as everything she loved was torn away from her like the constant wind ripping at a flag flown high above the water.
"faith," they promised, "is all you need."
now I ask them, can God cross his fingers?
even so, despite the crushing weight of my doubts and my uncertainty, I still choose to capitalize His name.
consciously or unconsciously, I know Him, no matter how furious it makes me.
i want to hate.
i want to be allowed to hate.
i want to erase all the days I believed, so it would be easier for me not to now.
i want my hope to come back to me, so I can place it somewhere else.
maybe I would choose differently this time.
maybe I would choose to capitalize something else.
maybe I would capitalize Myself for once, and not be ashamed to be ashamed.
i resent those who told me to believe, and I resent every "you'll be alright" I was promised, just as I resent the empty beer boxes stuffed away, hidden in our trash cans.
she told me to believe because she believed, and now she's a drunk.

- ch