Work Text:
God is a small boy playing in the gutter.
He doesn't look at me.
He already knows
the ugly everything that happened:
your shoulders flexing,
the split skin on your knuckles.
He knows about the hammer
& the dents, fuck, there are dents in my head,
can't stop thinking about the dents.
You're muttering about christ knows what
but in the trunk of the car
I can't make it out.
I don't care. Don't want to hear it.
You're not the man I loved anymore.
Shouldn't there be a sly joke
written on this piece of paper?
But it's only an old receipt
under my broken fingers.
Candy, coffee, six-pack, chips.
Thank you. Come again.
God rides his bike through a puddle of my blood,
drawing circles on the pavement.
It's raining, of course it's raining,
& the rain on my face
is life's last gift to my useless body.
Thank you, I say. Thank you.
Better dead than without him.