I don’t believe anymore. They’ve taken it away from me; faith is a luxury I can no longer afford. From now on, it’s just facts. Straight, dry, uninspiring facts. Facts that can get me killed. Ones that can get YOU killed, all the same.
It wasn’t always this way. I used to want to believe, as the kids say. I felt good in my openness, my blind ability to suspend any disbelief.
And then he showed up. Took my life, turned it inside out like a prolapsed bowel, and left me for dead. I wish I had gone that way. Easier, in the long run, than feeling this way. Like a hollowed out clay statue, dry and dusty on some voodoo woman’s shelf. Knowing for a fact that it’s over. No hope remains.
So I sit here, and wait. I clutch the truth like a drowning man clutches his nearest neighbor, dragging them down to their own watery end.
Only you can save me. I don’t even believe in you. You don’t exist. But here I am, nonetheless. Kill me. Or bring me back to life. I just can’t care.