With every word I box Him up. Four corners here, in You go, curl up in the cardboard like I did as a child, it is a spaceship, a submarine. Seal it up with packing tape, shove it in the attic where it will collect a layer of dust, sluggish and gray. The dust is soft, like forgetting.
But He doesn't fit. I can't make Him fit.
He is constantly exploding, making a mess, and I am constantly throwing tantrums. There is thick, sticky goo strung on the walls from our latest encounter, screaming in a thousand colors. It is going to stain. You have never seen anything this beautiful, this terrifying.
This isn't about making sense. Stop trying to make sense of it.
I am offended because He is naked. I am offended because there is blood, and bone, sharp cracks under my feet, I look down at the path I am walking and it is terrible and ugly. I am offended because there is no hatred in His eyes.
I was taught to wear a dress to church, but it always comes out ruined.
A stronger box, wooden, with nails. Or slabs of steel, buckets of concrete. I still cannot make it large enough, but I can cut off the limbs of His body, I will choose the most important pieces to go inside. The rest I'll bury, the rest I'll fling into a ditch. I will scream at any passerby who picks it up, that mangled hand, I could not make it fit.
I keep losing the pieces, the blood is so slippery. He is exploding everywhere.
No comments:
Post a Comment