On Bad Lives and Worse Ideas

I.

And in GOD's eyes or the Devil's (to be fair),
you are worth at least a thousand men and
a thousand sins, since both matters to them. And
they laugh, infinitely, at one faithless man who
prays (bargains) every Sunday -- every chance
he gets -- "Please, let me have her" like a mantra
or a wish. And since they saw that he was intoxicated
by hope, they taught him a lesson about life, one
about not begging for what he most desired in his
heart of hearts. And as you bled on marble floors,
embraced by white sheets of the same dank motel
room you shared with him (but you forgot), with
pills and a straightened wire hanger inside of you,
you asked yourself: "Whose fault is it now?" And you
flushed the bowl, treating the clumps of blood as shit.
Perhaps GOD and the Devil went out of their offices
to drink that day, talking about how you were still
worth a thousand hard-ons and another thousand
liters of cum while you were crying and in pain.

But in my eyes (to be fair),
I never liked praying anyway.