I’m fascinated by love because I don’t have it and never will.
I cannot.
I don’t want to be a victim, boy do really you think I would choose to not be loved?
I’ve tried.
I’ve been a wife, a girlfriend, a mother, a mistress. I’ll be whatever anyone wants me to be if they love me and still, no matter who I morph into for people they all leave. They always have. They always will. Because there is no real me. There was no one at the beginning to tell me I was important, or useful, or valid and therefore I don’t exist. I just survive.

I do feel like no one is capable of knowing the truth of human existence because I can’t know it. That, I am aware is totally a projection and feels very much like being in a glass container looking out.

An ant does not understand an airplane and can’t see it but knows its there and calls it god.

I feel like an ant.

If we were special………. and created in the image of some superior being from outer space… then we could change what we were made of and go anywhere, do anything, live forever. But we are born like dogs we live like pigs we work like horses and we die like everything else that exists here.

The point being, we die.

What is the point of a flower?

But matter cannot cease to exist, it simply changes forms, so my essence or my spirit or my soul will go on forever anyway, regardless of my preferred allegiances to a regionally created god figure on a planet of killers and rapists during the cultural climate from which I live.

Does my matter matter and why are you so sure that it will after I have died? Is that when your god will love me? Is that when you will too?

Yet, I can’t find it or feel it so I am lost.
A flower, growing and dying in mid-air and no one is impressed.
Since I’m categorically crazy and I don’t worship at the feet of your godhead, is that why I was chosen to be born, unloved?

Can your devil do good things and if so, is he still the devil when he does because of his intention or because of his overall outcomes?

I have no answers except one, we die.

I know I’m not a good person, baby and I realize you don’t love me and you never will.
And I do not think that god had a hand in you creating an online profile, clicking on a photo of me and showing up to my house with a bottle of whiskey and a bag of terrible sex toys and being my personal sex slave for years. But if you need 50 bucks to get a sandwich or some shit, I’ll send it to you. I have no reason to do so and it does not benefit me in anyway but its yours if you want it.

I grow in mid-air.

You are going to die too and I hope you are greeted by your angels then but in the meantime feel free to believe that your god sent the devil to your doorstep, to feed you.

I may not know what love is and I may not go to heaven and I may not live for another day but whatever I have is yours because I’m just an ant and being manipulated out of my spare change so you can eat feels like love to me.