the word of god
Category Archives: Religion
Christmas Lights
I came in
-Rex M
to work tonight
for my dad
at midnight,
as I have
been tending
to do lately
so the majority
of my time
can be free
of Christian music
and misgendering
and deadnaming,
and I saw
that my mom
had turned
on the
Christmas lights
on a cool
mid October
midnight.
I automatically smiled.
Then I appreciated
that smile,
and the fact
that I could
appreciate
that smile,
and how far
I have come
to be at peace
with myself
while they
be them.
Suddenly
my dad
walks in
while I am
writing this,
to check on
whether my brother
left his office
light on.
Just me.
Tapping on my phone.
He mutters
about the doorknob
needing work
and says
his goodbyes
and wanders
in to bed.
I fix the doorknob
when he leaves.
Sometimes
it feels like
all the effort
towards a relationship
is on my end,
other times
the conversations
between us
flow incendiary
and the world burns
and societal norms burns
and spiritual standards burn
but then on such a fundamental level
they just don’t get me,
they’re waiting for
this phase to pass,
they hope if
they just ignore
Halloween
they can skip
the demons
visiting their house
and head straight
to the celebrations
they understand
so here we are
hopefully lighting
Christmas lights
on a cool
mid October
midnight
and waiting
for the demons
to pass.
Happy Pride
I wish a
“Solemn Wrath”
to the people
who can’t yet
muster up “Happy”,
or “Pride”.
To the folx
who realized
why it was
that they
wanted to kill
themselves,
only to realize
that now
there’s a
huge faction of
vocal and cruel idiots
that want you dead
instead of you
and you have to wonder
at every moment
if you are worth it
if you are real
if you are more than a plague
if you aren’t really an abomination
when mothers
clutch their children
away from you
in the goddamn grocery store,
to you I wish an armor
so mirrored and fabulous
that you might return
every laser gaze of hate
with a reflection of understanding,
followed by a spiraling dance of non-caring,
and an eye shattering glow of exposure,
bringing to light the hateful hearts
of those that wish
to strike you down.
Grief Pickles
On the days
when I forget
to eat anything
but my
weed laced oatmeal,
sometimes I still have
Grief Pickles.
When my depression
or my disordered eating
grabs a hold of me
and prevents me from moving,
I can lift a Grief Pickle
to my mouth,
the temptation
to feel again
too great.
In a moment,
the tiny sweet gherkins
yield to my teeth,
meaty matter crumbling
into itself
along the structures
that created it,
and I remember
my Grandma.
I remember
every Saturday night
when she would
consider it
something special
to break out
a frozen pizza
and some
potato chips
and some
tiny sweet gherkins.
Not a balanced meal,
nothing like her
homemade roasts
or goulash
but she thought
it was special
(probably because
it took less work),
so I thought
it was special.
I bite into a
Grief Pickle and
I remember
my Grandma,
who kept the house
at 76 degrees
for two years
after my
Grandpa died,
never thinking
that she could
change it to
what she liked.
I remember
my Grandma,
who played
strategy games
as if she didn’t
quite fully
understand
everything
she could do
to screw
other people over,
until the time came
that she didn’t quite
understand
strategy games
that deeply at all,
not for the benefit
of others
or herself.
I remember
my Grandma,
who would
subtly rib
on my weight
by suggesting
things like,
“perhaps you
should check
the weight limit
on the chair.”
I remember
my Grandma,
complicated,
human,
trapped
just the same
in a society
and a family
with such profound
generational trauma
that we don’t
speak of emotions
much less feel them.
I remember
my Grandma
on the hospital bed,
looking lost and tiny,
a wrinkled fetus
abandoned in the
slow gradual breakdown
of the prison
that holds
our consciousness.
I remember
my Grandma’s
hand, small
and soft and spotted.
I take another bite.
Words of Wisdom
My Very Wise Friend said
“If your family
demands you perform
what they perceive
as your You-ness
in order to be
part of the family,
that’s not family
and that’s not love.”
My family has struggles.
Every one does.
I think we battle
more about
my You-ness.
See I can’t restrain my me-ness
and all they seem to think about
is imaginary penis
while my brain attempts to run from all
of these problems with expert fleetness
but really could I be less
Worried
Ashamed
Real
if I wasn’t truly here
or am I pretending that my absence
is a problem solving algorithm
when the question posed
by the riddle was always
“How do you have your best life?”
and the answer to the system
was never supposed to be
“Tap out, give up, it’ll only get harder,”
but instead the lesson was
“FIGHT. Fight and YOU’LL GET STRONGER.”
Pure Sterling
My mother told me
that God is the potter
and I am a cup
but I’m trying to
become a plate
but what she
doesn’t understand
is that I was
never meant
to be so simple
and utilitarian
in the first place
and it’s much
more likely that
I’m an abstract sculpture
out of precious metal clay
and this is my trial by fire
in the kiln of cruel expectations
burning away impurities
and anything less
than what I need
to be pure sterling.
Dangerous path
What dangers
am I
in if
I keep
going down
this path?
Because I
think it’s
damn impressive
that 24
random weasels
banded together
with enough
determination to
convincingly play
a human,
so a
slight adjustment
mid script
seems reasonable.
Sheep black by stain
I know that I’m not supposed to talk about being crazy.
I know that I’m not supposed to talk about my family.
Or politics.
Or religion.
Or suicide.
I know for damn sure I’m not supposed to talk about my gender and sexuality.
A bunch of anonymous people know I’m not supposed to talk about my alcoholism.
Or my autism.
Or my PTSD.
These are things people get judged for.
These are the things that cause family members to turn into black sheep.
Some black sheep come by it honestly, just melanin, all natural.
But most are stained that way by the vile oily sludge of judgement.
I know these things make people uncomfortable.
You think I don’t know that?
I’ve always known.
I think a little discomfort is a small price to pay, to relieve some sheep of their Sludgement Day.
Dreaming
Dreams are very powerful for me. I have vivid, imaginative dreams, a woven tapestry of realities and falsehoods that make me question everything when I wake up. A drinking dream shatters me. Dreams catalyzed my coming out process. A dream is how I knew I was pregnant.
It’s not something I talk about often. But it’s niggling at my soul, a little catch in the back of my mind. It’s a hurt that’s coming back after being repressed, so that means it is time to process it.
Vulnerability is a risky dialectic of connection and rejection. I know that there is a chance that saying what I have to say will bring closeness and help to salve an old wound. There is also the chance that I will alienate people and start battles I don’t want to get into.
Ultimately, however, the decision comes down to whether there’s someone else out there that might read this and find some peace from it. And so I move forward.
In 2010 and 2011 I was going to school and living in Grand Rapids with my boyfriend at the time and one other girl. I was a shitty roommate to her and I regret that, since she and I had planned to move in together and my boyfriend just kinda never left.
One night I sat bolt upright on the goddamn futon, having had a dream that I was pregnant. I tried to remember when my last period was. I asked him, he didn’t know either. We hustled to a grocery store and got several pregnancy tests, and the first one came back positive almost instantly.
I couldn’t have a child. I am not meant for child rearing. Especially not as my life was. Especially not as my descent into alcoholism was going.
But I didn’t have health insurance. Or a spare $900.
So I turned to the internet.
I don’t recommend anyone try to induce a miscarriage or self abortion or whatever you want to call it. I combined three or four methods and hoped and prayed.
Vitamin C stings. Parsley tea smells like horse piss.
But it worked, over several days. I started to bleed. And bleed. And bleed.
I felt nothing but relief then.
It hurts now.
Sometimes I think about the child I might otherwise have had. Somehow I imagine a boy, and I’m pretty damn sure he’d have curly blonde hair. I wonder about the way things might have gone with my boyfriend/ex husband, who wanted children later on. I question whether I would have cleaned up my act, whether I could have saved a few years of the depression institutionalization yo-yo. I know this sort of thinking is useless though.
Not much can keep me safe from my own insecurities though. About what this makes me, whether I’m a good person. You can be pro-choice all the live-long day and still struggle with internalized hate. I feel so alone. I don’t know anyone else who’s done this, because no one talks about it. So I stay inside my head with all my thoughts, and they percolate into vile piles of self loathing, and little story lines for dreams.
I take a prescription medication now though, one that prevents dreaming. I also have an IUD.
Boredom Buster
If I
were to
only have
two words
to describe
exactly how
I feel,
I guess
they would
probably be
“militant sonder.”
You know
the one,
ever aching
realization that
every person
you see
has their
very own
full life…
but aggressive.
Maybe evangelical.
It will
slap me
wide awake,
only to
yell into
my face
“other people
are LIVING!”
and I
have to
try my
best not
to count
what I
think is
the cumulative
value of
all the
world’s boredom.
Rexicorn 