Friday, April 17, 2009

She Sees God

She looks directly at God. She sees Him. He doesn't see her. She puts the needle to her tongue. Shoves her head in the oven. Takes all her clothes off. Just hoping He'll react.

She sees him there. In his endless layers of transparent skin. She sees Him. His face. His head. Eternity like a horde of ferrets gnawing at his brain. She sees him. In grandmother's pajamas. In her bed. His big teeth showing through his smug grin.

Cautiously she approaches. Her picnic basket heavy with anticipation. Her red, red hood scant to conceal her trembling.

She sees him there. In grandmother's bed. Thief. Bad novelist. Villain. Victim. His big ears deaf. His big eyes sightless.

She bends down next to the bed and leaves the basket for Him. Bits of skin and mortal dichotomy. She stares at Him. His big teeth blindly chew on it. His blind eyes glance in her direction. The scent of defeat attracts carnivores. And baleful gods. To empty corners where the girl once stumbled. Skinned knees and torn dresses are heaven's only door.

She sees Him. He only sees her when she's not looking.

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