suicide seat

when the call came, it surprised me, leaving me wondering how long he knew, how to find me. did he wait, patiently until now, when i was just beginning to feel settled? the voice on the phone said,

"god is dead, can you come home?"

i dropped the phone, listening to it clatter, as i relearned how to breathe, for the first time in years.

god is dead.

now, i sit in the suicide seat, the same one my daddy did, lamenting what he did to me, when the shotgun spoke to his head, leaving, like shavings from its eraser, blood and brain---
matters little, just another way of him stealing my opportunity to hate and say what needed to said.

how am i supposed to feel anyway? remorse, no.

i pick petals off the lilies, someone sent to sit by his grave, tossing them on the floor, crushing them with the toe of my shoe, hoping their smell masks his. mumbling daisy songs...loves me not. loves me. not.

bastard.

the trigger whispers comfort to my finger for a
heartbeat.

"follow me. come to me, sweetie."

no, i will not be so careless. no, i will be much more elegant in my partaking in passing. now is not my time. i wonder if you got hard, running your tongue around the rim of the barrel before discharge. that would be just like you. did you quote scripture again, just to make yourself feel better?

no. i will not go with you, there, too much like getting back into bed with you all over again. this time for all eternity.

no. this time, 'no' means it, and you can't even hear it.

no, living is my victory, the hammer to the nails, in the lid
of your coffin, wishing it
was your head.

is it supposed to feel this good,
when a god lies dead?

hopefully, they will at least have good food, at the reception,
i think,
tossing the stems to the floor.

The Tenth Daughter of Memory.

silence. lies. broken.

my father is a devout man, in his white collar shirt, thick black framed glasses, where he sits upright at the head of our table. he keeps his eyes closed, fingers steepled as he blesses all that has been laid before us. his strength is hidden, think sinew, behind his humility and those that sit around our table as guests are astounded at the complexity of his gentle arguments. obviously he is godly.

silence. lies. broken.

at night he slips through the frame of light, created by the door, and i pretend to sleep, hoping perhaps he will leave. his coarse hair bites my skin, as he settles his weight, whispering scripture in my ear as he wiggles inside of me, worms come to sup on the carrion of my soul. i am sin incarnate and he is mandated by his god to crucify me, put to death my sinful nature, for my own good. i know better than to fight.

silence. lies. broken.

my mom is not oblivious, i tried to tell her once, and in her eyes i could see the same blemish that he sees and she beat me, pants down, at the root of my sin. that was nothing compared to what he did though, admonishing me for not honoring my mother and my father. my tongue is vile, so i lived in his lies, in silence. when i became pregnant he took that too.

silence. lies. broken.

god, the father, hated me and blamed me for all, which made me powerful, yet i was the sacrificial lamb mutely bleating in the thicket. my blood ran rich on the altar for years, but i died early on, resurrected only for his good and perfect will. after the miscarriage, i ran and i have been hiding from god ever since. at night, i still cling to the sheets and when i hear those whispers, because they always come, i pray, as he taught me...my father, which lies above me, hollow is my name.

silence. lies. broken.

The Tenth Daughter of Memory.