Bitter Thing
By J.R. Harrington (Graphic Design by Volt)
Do you believe in heaven? Do you know how to tie your shoelaces? Do you like looking at art, or does it just make you feel more insignificant? In the end, we’re all insignificant. Don’t worry so much. Don’t worry so much. Do you think God watches you? Is he blind to your woes? Do you drink your tea without sugar?
You aren’t a sweet thing, so bitter and burnt. You aren’t kind. Do you think God wants to watch someone who isn’t kind? Do you think I’m here to write your story? Why would I write the story of someone so bitter? You’re short-sighted, you don’t understand religion or God or the idea that you have a soul.
Your lacking sense of anima will deteriorate you. Do you listen to strange music? Do you listen to the voices in your head? I think they’re kinder than you, those voices. I think you’re jealous of their kindness. I think they’d do a better job of being real than you do. Are you real? Are you real? Are you real?
I know I’m real because my eyes water when I drink my tea, and it’s far too hot for me. You think you’re real because you can look in the mirror and see yourself, but to me you’re only words on a page. I don’t know what you look like. You don’t know what you look like either. Do you go to bed at nine o’clock sharp, as is good and proper?
No, you stay up late, even when you’re alone and have no reason to. You read or pace or write rageful letters to all the people who made you the way you are, bitter thing. You should be sleeping. Why aren’t you sleeping? You drink your bitter tea in large quantities, the caffeine keeps you up all night.
Why are you crying? Why are you always crying? The stress makes you tense, the muscles all stiff and bunched up. Do you wear nice sweaters in the winter? Do you have a coat you just adore? Are you excited for the first snow? It’s November, so the snow is coming soon. You don’t like hot chocolate, you think it’s childish.
You don’t like anything but plain black tea. No, you like your books, smart books, with no pictures. Art books make you nervous, the way you feel you’ll never have as much meaning as a single glossed page. The voices in your head like art books, and I think you should stop depriving them over your discomfort.
You like your fancy fountain pen, the one that always writes smoothly. Do you think you’re better than everyone else? You think you’re better than everyone else, with their ballpoints and gel pens. You don’t really like anything, you just like feeling superior. Would it shock you that God drinks herbal tea with too much sugar?
Would it shock you that God loves ballpoints? Would you go into shock if you found you were just words on a page? You are just words on a page. Predictable words on a page. There is nothing you could possibly do to surprise me. You look in the mirror, you look at your eyes. Do you remember what color they are? Are they any color at all?
Bitter thing, you think you were made to be tortured—and hell, you may be right. Do you like being alone? Do you get tired of being stuck in a room with the mirror, and the voices, and all your pretentious things? You want for a friend, but you’re a cruel thing, you could never keep them. Look in the mirror. Are your teeth stained from all that tea?
You amplify your voice, shouting to the sky. You ask why I made you. Don’t you know? Don’t you know? Something to fill the time, creation. The acceleration of your heartbeat amuses me. The gasps for air as you sob are only entertainment to a twisted God. And I am just as bad as my own god, making something just to pull it to pieces and put it back together.
Do you like being broken to bits? Will you just hold still so I can glue you back together? Bitter thing, you squirm and writhe in my hands. Let me fix you. Does it terrify you, the power I have? I know, I know. It’s scary, the idea of a higher power. I assure you I’m just as afraid as you are.