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.
Don’t you see that my kid is Good too?
I will unsay all my insults.
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.