<3
This blog is a view into what life is like when you are not chosen by god
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“i can’t do this anymore” says a girl who is not only going to do it but do it well
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Are you scared, Laika?
Are you free?
Or is there no difference at all?
When all you know is the street
Space will never seem so empty.
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I do not want to hear about god from the saints. I want to hear from the sinners. I want to hear from the snakes and the spiders. What does the shark have to say about the merciful? What does the snarling dog think of the divine? I do not want to hear from the blessed About what the others lack.
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Limited Editions, Carole Stone
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The Moon That Turns You Back, Hala Alyan
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To the spider
And God,
You are a trespasser that does not belong here.
Maybe ignorance is all it takes to coexist.
Not your fault, not mine, just is.
We will never truly know each other,
My veins laced with deadly venom.
But, isn’t bite also touch?
This still seems to me a good question.
Ignoring the rudeness my kindness was repaid with,
I get the most
peaceful weapons I can find.
I have always been too sensitive,
But I was born this way,
Begging to be believed.
Lord, I worry
You remember too much.
I keep searching for proof,
As I was punished for the sin of trying to do the right thing.
Freak of nature.
The shadowed creature in the corner of the room.
You’re a sinner too.
And, I hate you.
And, I care if I am guilty.
I suffer in my loving,
Convinced that was devotion,
That love is violence.
God suffices as a companion
But it's getting harder.
I could die for you,
And get swallowed whole.
Maybe you would've shown me mercy
But you are still standing, and I am still sorry.
And
He is still God.
(Rudy Francisco|l, e|Anne Carson|Katherine Fabrizio|‘Attar|Margaret Atwood|Natalie Diaz|Althea Davis|Ada Limón|Laura Gilpin|Joshua Tree|José Olivarez|Frank Bidart|Melody S. Gee|Willa Cather|John Keats|Avain Blue|Kristin Chang)
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I tried to consume my mother’s rage when I was twelve. I found it unappetizing. Shallow, bitter, directed inwards. Frightening but only in the way of a coyote. Loud and yet timid. A snapping feverish anger that was quickly stamped out. But my rage grew deeper. I made my own from the froth and the spittle and the blood. An anger that was sharp and sour. A biting anger. An anger that only a girl can know. The sort of anger that gnaws on your bones and leaves bruises on your knees. Scrappy and rough. Young and ill advised. The kind of anger that follows you through winter. And it’s winter now. But I can hear coyotes tonight, barking in the backyard. They’re calling me home. I know they’re calling me home.
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grief & anger & grief & anger & then regret & further grief & somewhere between it all, me
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still. after all of it. mostly, i want to be kind
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Well God,
I have a few questions
That have been burning
In my mind
For quite a while now.
Must you have laced
My breath with venom?
I have always wanted
To get closer than I should.
And by then
It is already too late.
I am glad
You have given me
The gift of speed
But I should think
A slow stroll
Would also be nice.
And why am I to be
So very small?
I cannot feel safe
But in the highest corners
Where I am away
From everyone else.
But I do not want
To be alone
All my life.
And God,
Is there no story
In which I am not feared?
I think I would like it
Very much
To just be.
So why couldn’t you
Have made me loved?
Sincerely signed,
The spider
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