You were hungry.
You were mad at god at the time and I fed you.
Not god, me, you whiny little bitch.
I fed you.
And yet somehow you’ve grown to associate all of your ails with force feeding
And yet somehow you’ve grown to associate all of your ails with me
While you stood there like an asshole just staring at the tree
Stomach grumbling.
I fed you.
You were mad at god at the time and I wasn’t.
But I don’t hear you blaming god for making you able to feel hunger in the first damned place.
I don’t hear you blaming god for making you at all.
Just me.
I suppose that’s my fucking fault too?!
This is the thanks I get for eternity huh, for satiation?
For gratification?
I fed you.
And I wonder when we get to admit that you are a useless pawn
between me and god
if I’m honest
and neither of us care any fucking more about your tantrums, boy.
Neither of us care any fucking more about your bellyaches, boy.
We’re not your toys.
Your “god” stopped excusing you way back then and now your “woman” has too.

What will you do?
We used to feed you.