i do not believe in god. but oh how i wish that the streetside evangelists mean what they say. instill it in me, preach at my alabaster face until i know it is true, too. i have an irrational, rational fear, and it is believing. if there is holy ground, i have yet to find it, and oh how long i have walked these lonesome lands. i think there are people in my walls, under my bed, where god should lie instead. my door always opens after it has already shut. what a pretty star, she says, and in that moment i do not believe that the curve of her shoulder or the light in his eyes is heaven. that is not a star, i say, it is a satellite.
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