Flying over Philadelphia:

You are not the only one.

Do you understand?

You are not the only one.

I will cry for one week straight.

For a month, I will see you everywhere.

For two months more,

Little things will speak your name and form.

But at six months?

I will be able to laugh.

I will mock your mannerisms to my friends.

I will call you

A bastard

A jackass

A son of a bitch.

And they will all agree.

I will gain weight and lose it.

I will pick up a hobby.

I will have a one-night stand,

With someone ten times as attractive as you are.

The next morning,

I will tell myself it was worth it.

One day, I will see you.

I will smile without bitterness, and say,

“Hello.”

You will respond in kind.

You will ask me to get a drink:

Coffee, beer,

No matter.

I will decline.

But, as you walk away,

I will call you back.

We will laugh again together;

We will say our good-byes.

I will go home and cry,

One last time.

I will dry my eyes

And go for a walk in the sun.

The sum of all the parts is this:

I will get over you.

The soft underside

The back, less yielding

One two three

Every time we talk

            clean slate

            wouldn’t work out

            better this way

What do you expect?

The pain to loosen my hold on you?

So much easier to back away

Needle thin paper cuts

What you don’t realize, darling, is

These little nicks –

They add up over time

Already you’re down to the bone

And I haven’t let go

I won’t let go

A part of me goes with you when you go

Of blurred shapes, smudged and grey.

Gentle and gradual, a rising tide;

Slowly sinking into shadow.

I was engulfed by it,

Tender as a kiss.

Suddenly, with the discovery

Of lensis ocularis,

My world snaps back.

Like a rubber band or a heartstring,

Stretched to the breaking point

And then let go.

The world in focus;

Every leaf edged sharp and green.

But now, after so many years

Accustomed – re-accustomed – to clarity,

The charcoal has returned.

The blur of a hand passed over ink.

I’m near-sighted yet again.

Myopic.

I cannot see a thing.

Where are my glasses?

You must have brought them with you when you left.

Dear God,

My name is Rachel.  I am seventeen years old, and in the twelfth grade.  Did You know, the one time I even considered the possibility that You don’t exist, I started crying?  Embarrassingly and uncontrollably?  Just thinking about the time I thought about it scares me.   There’s a huge hole inside my chest, somewhere between my breasts and my groin, and every time I imagine infinite nothingness, the hole pulses with pain.  It’s worse than sex, worse than death, worse than self-knowledge.  How could You put us here, make us live and die, and not exist?  It’s just selfishness, You know.

Isn’t that funny?  When I capitalize the word “You,” Microsoft Word underlines it in green.  Looks like it’s joined the rest of the world: it doesn’t believe in you either.

I’m really scared, You know?  I’m doing what You told me to do.  I don’t drink (usually), don’t do drugs (ever), don’t sin (often), and I’m as pure as a new-fallen snow.  It’s hard, did You know that?  Who doesn’t want to get wasted?  I am alone in the world, You know, and sex makes us feel less so.  I want to feel someone beside me when I close my eyes, and feel him again when I open them.  I want to know what everything feels like, God, but I’m scared.  I’m a curious person, You know – You made me that way.  However, I will wait, because You told me to.  Probably.  Hurry up and give me a reason.

Do you understand how unfair You are?  You are the game-maker, so you get to make the rules.  I’ve heard that a thousand times, when people try to explain why some are damned to Hell (I’m not cursing there, for your information, as I don’t curse) and some are not.  However, we don’t get to choose to play the game.  You make us play the game, and then we lose, because you never told us the rules.  Nice one.  You sure got us!  So, I’m supposed to accept the injustity, because I “could have been born a sea sponge.”  Yes, I could.  Or I could have been You, and let everyone be happy.  This makes me very, very angry.  Everything You made is beautiful, everyone You made is beautiful, but you are willing to let is burn.  What happened to conservation of natural resources?  What happened to being a good steward?

I don’t understand.  I feel miserable sometimes.  Happiness is very fleeting, but depression can last years.  I should be ecstatic, You know, but I’m not.  I’m mildly amused, which I suppose is good enough for now.

                                                                                                Regards,

                                                                                                                  Rachel