December, 10, 2022.
I write this filled with shame and desperation.
Long have I taken these feelings and hid them in shoes and the crevices of cold leather couches. When the embarrassment became too heavy to bear, gulped poisons until my gut hardened because maybe then I could feel closer to You.
My mum believes that each child chooses the parents to which they want to be born by. It is her only way to make sense of my birth and our forever tie to the bastard that is my father. I ultimately believe life is random and everything is a consequence of chance and we create systems to coddle our curiosity and soothe our fears. I spent my youth fearing mirrors because I was made in my fathers image. And only now that I have those conversations do I realise that my estranged relationship with my mother was a by-product of my face, my body, my voice and my provocations. How could she give me the comfort and love I so wanted, and lacked from his absence, when I stared at her with eyes that were his and scorned her with his mouth.
And as I age.
As my heart hardens,
whilst my character weakens.
As I move forward,
whilst managing to always take several steps backwards, I am confronted and comforted by both their lights and darks that make up my contrast. I wish I believed in something outside of myself. I have been self soothing for too long and am desperate for a basket to rest my eggs in. It is not like I have not performed what it is to be a believer. My costume was too tight and the soles of my shoes had separated but I did the honourable thing. I continued to dance as if no one would notice.
!!! The show must go on
That is the only lesson from the church that I bothered to remember.
A good believer sings god praise.
A good believer knows right from wrong.
I learnt about my sexual worth from some of the best believers. My warmth best received when it was a secret between two.
I have never repented. And if I did, I don't think I ever meant it. Because my heart knows I am not a product of pureness, but rather of deceit. And that has to be by chance. I refuse to believe it were for a reason.
I cannot tell where this all starts and ends, is it my mum, the mirror, the Bastard or the church?
What I know is that I envy the faithful.
I wish to sing in tongues and fall to my knees with unwavering conviction.
To sit in uncomfortable chairs for lengthy sermons lead by hypocrites with those who believe it with me.
I have sent you love and warmth. And I cannot say for certain that it ever reaches you.
I wonder if you ever pray for me. I wonder if anyone ever prays for me.
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