Answer To My Empty

1. I slip off the bed.

Slippered feet walk

toward the door, closed.
2. I look down, telling

God: she is just a person.

Shame rushes down spine.
3. Leaning against the wall,

I pull, instead of pushing the gate

open. I scare her to death.
4. I listen to her tell me,

school is awesome.

Her mouth drops wonder

when I stutter how I have

no desire to go.
5. I can’t sleep before midnight.

My mind asking why God says:

Look, the human beings have become

like us: knowing good & evil. What if

they reach out, take fruit from the tree of life,

and eat it? Then they will live forever!

6. I text a friend, explaining

how I hear anger, maybe God

never wanted us forever. I don’t

tell her this, but how I compare

my earthly father to God. Asking

questions makes me terrified

I am bothering someone.

Somehow, I picture God sitting

beside me, as I remember

my father asking, what do you mean

you don’t get it? His frustration

made me feel wrong. The eraser

burning remark against that white paper.

He blew the shavings away backhanded,

while I made resolution to understand

the first time around.
7. I let the phone light go out,

weeping with the question she asks:

what is keeping you from enjoying life

right where you are? I feel small,

chillike, trying to keep tears inside.

My chest heaves, why don’t You love

me? This is getting broken up all over

again, again, again. Tidal wave crushing

shore, until I fall back back

under sleep’a call.

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