I hope to never leave him with any reminder of my existence, and if there is an afterlife, I hope to find God already waiting for me with an explanation as to why. Why I was born poor, and a girl. Why I had to leave everything behind. Why I had to teach myself to never write in ink. Why I had to constantly set myself on fire to keep anyone from getting close.
I need God to tell me why he made men that like to unmake women and then call all the pieces left behind, the pieces of themselves they still recognize “angry”. Maybe my anger is a way of calling out to myself in the night. It is me howling at the moon, asking why even in the darkness I can’t be left alone. And if I survive this suicide attempt, which is highly likely, because I have survived things far worse than death, I will drown myself in the woman I find staring back at me in the mirror.