The Etch-A-Sketch End of My Soul

The doctor says to take a breath,
To let go. Don't let it bother me.
And I take a deep breath, all for show,
Pressing my lips together.
"Who the fuck do you think you are?"
I want to yell, scream, flail at her.
"Who are you to tell me to let go?
Let go of what? Who I am?
What I've done? Who I've loved?"
Am I to leave it be, to trust in some
Invisible God to reach out His hand
And save me from myself and others?
God has better things to do, I think.

The pastor says to take a breath,
To kneel and pray, to ask for God's
Oh-so-infinite Justice. Like a shot,
A bolt of God's loving mercy down
My human spine. A prick of divine
Penicillin, to kill the hatred and the
Doubt that spreads through my veins.
"I'm allergic to God," I say. "His
Shots just make me sick."
I blaspheme, then, to fuel the
Sickness. Maybe God's wrath
Will cleanse my soul where His
Mercy feeds my disease.

My teacher says to take a breath,
It's just a test, it's just your life,
Just a grade, just enlightenment
Wrapped in blue paper.
The ink of my blood, of my knowledge,
Melts into the pages. As my facts,
As my figures and tabulations,
The story of the world as-is,
Fill the pages with the Earth's
Long memory, I take a breath
And fill the void with fear.
I lose myself without my tales,
My soul has no fuel to sustain it
Without the histories of life.

I need to asphyxiate, I think,
To experience what the others
Call faith. Is this God's
Justice or His Wrath come to save
Me? Or the Misfit, come down the
Road to kill me, a murderous
Reflection of Christ? I need to be
Shaken, the Etch-a-Sketch
End of my soul. Then, maybe,
God can reach out and save me,
With His mercy. And I will be
Dutibly fearful of his Wrath.