deliver me from evil

I had the urge to clear the ground, to look out and see nothing. Except there’s no such thing as nothing. Nothing means removal. It means something was there and now it’s not. I always end up here. I tell you that it’s over, I cut my hair, I move across the country. I swear to you I’m a different clara now. This one is clean inside and out. I sucked out all the evil blood and replaced it with something good and pure like alkaline water or green tea. 

I went to confession and I told the priest that I was sorry. I'm not religious but my therapist priced me out and divine intervention is free. Plus I like how formulaic it all is. You tell father john that you lied six times and three hail marys is all it takes for your evil to disappear. I can't see him through the latticed screen wall but I imagine he’s furiously jotting down my sins into the FORMULA OF GOOD AND EVIL until he tells me the price I need to pay. God I love punishment. My therapist always used to tell me that I was valid, but all I really needed was someone to tell me to shut the fuck up and pray. 

Catholicism is just a numbers game. Ten commandments, one guy, one devil, forty days, seven seals, twelve disciples. I added them up and ended up with the number 71. I'm sure it means something but the priest won’t tell me, and I keep sending him letters but all I get is sanctimonious shit about the power of zoloft or peace within. I know he’s hiding something because any guy that pretends to like celibacy is full of it. I keep looking for signs. God please blink at me 71 times or hit me with a semi. I’m flexible. 

I told him that I wasn't sure if I was sorry about the right things, and he told me it doesn’t work that way. Forgiveness demands remorse, a currency of pain bouncing back. Commit pain onto others and it all goes back inside you like self imposed karma. I can feel it in my veins, the echo of consequence. It’s pulsing and swelling just to remind me it’s there. But this time I’m sitting with it. I’m letting it all boil up inside me until my internal organs are chalky and overcooked in unspecified vice. It’s all indigestible. It’ll cut through your teeth. You can’t bite into me now. Reinvention is just denial. I know that now.