conversations with your god last night i spoke to your god. he told me his head hurts. how he loathes the cacophony of prayers, the sound like “a thousand trains on a thousand rusty tracks.” he may have been holy once, but now he is rotten on the inside like a fruit left in the sun. i fell to my knees like they taught me in church, i played the sunday-school girl, asked for mercy and got misery. your god laughed-- howled until he spilled tears down his white robes. last night i fought with your god, and shoved him out the door like a no-good drunk. he stumbled over his wild white beard and splayed across my floor, your god bloody on the tile, as broken as we are. i learned that yelling at god and expecting him to answer is like throwing a glass at a wall and expecting the wall to crumble. your god heard me cry and he wept along, and when i was done we raged together. monkey-see monkey-do. it is hard for him to give if all you do is take. i looked in the mirror in the winter morning. and saw a girl instead of a wildfire for the first time. god was a terrible roommate. he used my shower. he left on my lights. and, just to let you know, when he was done with me, god took my coat and meandered down to the seven eleven for a payday bar and a bud light.
Anna Ferris is a high school writer from Pittsburgh, PA. She is a rising senior. Sometimes she is reading, sometimes she is walking. Sometimes both. She is Lebanese, Syrian, German, and human.