don't make this difficult.

back

christ, you disgust me.
how does one even stand
their body becoming used
to your touch? why does
your mother look at you
with love, when what’s
reflected is a greek tragedy?
how did she spend nine
months with you inside of her?
curling in her stomach,
gently grinning behind the walls.
you are no child of mine.
god, when i saw you in the
hospital, i almost became an
atheist, because how could
any god love you? i would
have been content with your
mother to die in labor if it
meant you wouldn’t be alive
today. i fear that even if
you did pass in this second;
in the twilight light of morality,
pride prevails. ah, even speaking                                                                                are you ready
on this leaves a pit in my stomach.                                                                              to talk now?
i’m sure joseph would have
understood, considering jesus
and all. but you are certainly
no saint (and your mother no virgin).
god, just shut up. don’t talk.
even hearing you gives me
a headache, and it roars in my ears.
the moment you got old enough
to open your mouth and speak
every unloved and unnurtured,
primitive, unnecessary, impulsive
thought that would have never
even been entertained in
a better, superior person,
i looked at you like one looks
at the bug already crushed under
their foot, leaving its disgusting
almost-blood everywhere.
like a lamb to slaughter.
i never glanced at you,
and if i did it was out of
needless pity for your patheticness.
christ, you disgust me.