Prayer

Please help me, God.

I am unhappy, it is the default state.

It is done.

This isn’t poetry, despite the layout.

If you let her be OK, you can keep ruining my life, I don’t care.

I’m begging you.

My one miserable life, what does not matter?

But she is young! Let her be happy!

I can live vicariously through my children’s happy lives.

Their happiness will rub off on me.

This is a prayer.

You’re supposed to be polite in a prayer—

I did say please, in a begging sort of way.

It’s what I want, God!

Ditch the fucking gender ideology!

This is a demand.

No—I can be polite again.

I can be self-abasing.

Whatever it takes.

If you do this for me, I promise to be your loyal servant.

I will quit complaining about my lot.

Just please, OK?

What did Job do when you heaped all those tribulations on him?

Did he keep the faith?

I can’t remember the story.

Dear God, I need your help, can’t you see that?

Why am I writing to a malign deity?

Because I believe—I know—you can be Good.

Good—but capricious.

Don’t you see that my kid is Good too?

I will unsay all my insults.

I’m sorry!

And I’m a good mother, in intention.

I will do anything to protect her.

I should be grateful today—

And I’m trying to be.

But the little things like cushions or friends or food on the table…

They’re not enough!

I am greedy, God, I want more.

I am bargaining with you—in exchange for everything I have,

All I’m asking is this:

Let her be happy!

My violence is contained,

Despite this outburst.

Maybe I should never have been a mother.

What can I say?

I fucked up.

But I LOVE her.

Help me, God.

Please.