"BATH & GOD"

DEAR DIARY, 

I am in a hot bath. My religion is vulnerable in my palms. It is a wash rag, dirty. When squeezing the red bellied dignity, a soapy foam slides down my sacrificial wrists. I picture myself on a cross, slightly. But also, I am lying in the sun, stretched out to be impelled by gooey gold. Or I am making a snow angel in a world of dead trees. The only thing moving for miles. All of that is the same thing. The bones of God are everywhere and that's just where I find them. Hell, even a bird looks bent and double jointed now. The tips of my finger are pruning, changing. In a hot bath, there is shedding. If the Buddhists are right, if Franny and Zooey are right, then God is in me. This truth makes things harder.  

DEAR DIARY, 

I cut my hair. It was mostly for the baths. I got tired of sinking too far. My hair was getting sopping wet. I got a bob and bangs. I feel like Joan of Arc. Without the resilience or memorability of it all. Now I can float wonderfully. This is the closest thing to my mother's womb. The last time I felt curious. A place of small thuds, mumbled voices. Floating without consciousness. The problem is that no one told me to come out. I made that decision. It is my biggest regret. I would have spent a lifetime inside my mother. The warm, plushy compulsion. If God is in me, then this is where he intervened. This was my come to Jesus. I wanted to stretch her life-sized belly further, to the bounds of everything. In my mother, I am safe.  

DEAR DIARY,  

I am 21 and it seems like everyone is dying or giving birth to boys. To be born seems a means to suffer. I hope to never die. I hope to have a daughter. Nothing phases me anymore. Not even God in my skin. God in everything. God every-damn-where. One day, I will give birth in a bath. This, I know for certain. Let the baby come gently. Or she can stay. I don’t mind. I will try to make things lighter for them, but can I do that? Truthfully, I don’t think so. What am I to do when she enjoys hot baths? Believes in God? Finds evidence of God everywhere? Cuts her hair short? Hate me sweetly for the curse I gave her? Then, maybe, will I accept death? Accept another 21 years and boom, right there, a younger version of all that I know? Will I wonder and question? Can I teach her love in this slumped place? My bath is getting cold. I have shriveled past time.  

I have changed again. 

(Drain. Rinse. Bathe.)  

(Drain. Rinse. Bathe.)