Holocaust Heart

People have always tried to know the “real” me, but there is nothing authentic about my life. The lines I write only for myself, keeping them a mystery. What they do not see will not hurt them, and I can easily remain hidden within the scabs of history. Every question that they ask, I hear but do not answer. My memory like cancer. Spreading, infecting, leaving nothing untouched, by the corruption of what they all consider love.

Now, just how cliché would it be of me, to blame my heart for this holocaust? To blame, but a vascular organ for my wrists being embossed. For, if I think about it clearly I am almost one hundred percent sure that a heart cannot be the source of love, a heart is but a clock. Ticking stagnantly inside of each individual, until in one moment time loses his breath, and it all stops. In one minute untold to us by a vengeful god, we will cease to exist, to open our eyes never again, no heaven or hell as the sisters in Catholic school would constantly persist. Where will your god be when they bury you beneath the soil and you are never missed, god is but a painful apparition conjured up by human kind for hope, but to me god is but a cyst. An unnecessary hindrance.

See, I tried to pray to god, I tried to ask him for some help, my screams were unheard. After I realized that they would never be answered I promised to never be an ingénue again, god was just a murderer. In every book, in every single verse it shows how he created us just to cause us hurt. So here he is, cyst on the side of my face, and I am ready to carve at him as he begins to puss. I prayed to this god only years ago and then finally I scolded, as now it seems I have to lay my cards out on the table to proclaim to him I folded.

As I crawl through this entanglement, through this sticky web of enmity, I feel the rain cascade from the cloudy sky. Mother always told me when it rains that is god’s sign of resent, that rain is but the tears falling from his eyes. Yet, under these conditions when the rain is thick, sticking to my bark, with bubbles of white. It is no longer raining, nor are these mere tears, this is god spitting on my life.

I am ready to open up, to tell the world of my mutilated breath. To tell them of the pain I have seen, felt, and caused, the affection and the vomit.