Prayer

Romantic endings, insomnia, underwear, hot dogs, and kissing on a Friday night.

I want to know when we will no longer repent.

I’ve become fascinated with prayer, the act of kneeling before something greater, asking for forgiveness for things we did when we didn’t know how to do anything else.

In the throws of a recent romantic ending, I found myself frozen in a bed that wasn’t mine, in a place I had only been to a few times, feeling an urge to pray.
Not an urge to pray for this ending to have never happened but for the shame that brought it to be lifted, for forgiveness for my silence, my anxious heart, my anger. All of it.

It feels so remarkably human to pray, to kneel and lay our heads down, promising we’ll never do that bad thing again, that thing that we know we can’t help but do again.

I got home from my romantic ending event and kneeled in bed in prayer. I prayed that I would finally begin to answer to the weird little girl who claws at my skin, reminding me that I am abandoning myself.

She’s blonde, sweet and her hands smell like wood chips.

As I knelt and laid my head against my mattress, I felt each part of my body sink. My hair fell down over my eyes; I could feel my elbows against my thighs. My breath shallow yet still.

I thought about all the other soft bodies in this world irresistibly in prayer; their heads bowed low, knees aching to show their remorse.
It seems the most human thing is to pray to anyone but ourselves. We are never the higher power; we are the guilty shell begging to be forgiven.
All of the goodness comes from prayer once we relinquish ourselves to its punishment.

I saw a fox with an old friend and I thanked prayer, I thanked a higher power.
Someone looked at me and asked me if I had always been this beautiful, and I thanked prayer.
I walked across my hometown listening to music I hadn’t heard in years, I walked until I could breathe again. I felt fifteen, I felt brave. I thanked a higher power for the bravery I felt.

I am indebted to prayer for everything that is wonderful, but I know this only comes when I kneel in the open arms of its punishment - looking down at me, spitting on my naked, shivering body; I brace myself, knowing goodness will come, love will come.

I write of being evil, feeling a rabid dog within you that you should never tame, yet I pray, I pray to be different. I find myself sitting close to someone new, in complete silence, thinking over and over what the right thing to say is, wishing I could kneel down and beg for courage.

They’d watch me in confusion, but then I’d lift my head up and say it all the right way; I’d show them I’m virtuous, clean, my mouth no longer foaming, my bite concealed.

As a thought experiment, I imagined what it would be like not to pray for change or transformation, not to conceal my bite.

I’d wake up in sheets covered in stains of an origin I couldn’t place. I’d eat nine hot dogs for breakfast and call each of my friends for each hot dog. I would be inaudible over the phone as I shoved them in my mouth, but my friends would understand me anyway. I’d run to the park in my ex-boyfriend’s boxers from four years ago that I stained with blood, sit on the grass, and breathe loudly; I’d listen to music without headphones and laugh in the faces of chihuahuas. I'd make inappropriate jokes to strangers, and then I’d go to the playground and play until dark.

In the night, I’d run to that bar where that cute guy works. I’d lean over the bar in my shirt covered in ketchup and mustard stains and kiss him. I think he’d kiss me back.

I’d go dance with strangers and watch couples fall in love. I’d watch them sway close together, shyly embracing. I’d cheer them on, yelling at them to really give it to each other.

I’d end my day in bed eating more hot dogs and calling my friends to tell them that I actually have forgiven myself, their friendship will forever be my greatest romance.

I think I am done with prayer.

I think things are gonna be hard and fucking weird.

Yes!!! Incredible!! I fucking hope it’s hard and weird!!!