Dear God

 

Image credit: HOLA

By Sekinat Abdulwakil 

To whom this could concern,

Ummm, hi. I have decided to do something different this time because words flow better when I write them than when I force them through words. Maybe it's because paper doesn't judge the way people do.

I have not known peace in a while. I know I have not been good. Each time I come crawling to you, it's with the same words. “I know I haven't been good. I haven't been praying. I have been sinning. I am failing as a daughter, as a sister, as a friend but I really need this.” And then you give it and I never change. I only return with the same chant, like a lie well rehearsed.

But lately, the art of asking I've come to know too well has soured. Peace has slipped through me like water in a basket. A restless creature moves inside me continuously pacing. I wonder what would happen if she doesn't stop soon.

This letter is a trade. I will give you confessions and in return, I ask for some quiet. Not necessarily happiness or salvation, only quiet.

I once poisoned a girl in primary school. Or, I tried to. A childish thing perhaps. I no longer remember the full story but I remember the thrill rather than the guilt. If it counts as anything, I didn't really mean to poison her, I was just a curious child. And it wasn't poison, so, thank goodness for that? I sometimes wonder what would have happened if it was actually poison.

That is my first offering, others would follow. But know that I'm not writing because I believe I will be forgiven. I am writing because if I do not place these sins somewhere, the creature in me would really do a thing and there would be nothing left of me.

I have stolen things not mine. I have taken things that were not worth taking, laughter that wasn't mine, secrets that were never meant to be told. I broke trust just for the sports and felt no pity when they cried. 

I once killed for a lover. He refused to give me what I needed. He was certain he knew me better than I knew myself and was certain he could make me into something else. Maybe, just maybe, he wasn't really a lover but he could have been. If he wanted to, he would. And when he wouldn't, I ended him. Not for rage, there was simply no room for his refusal inside me. It shouldn't count as a sin since I didn't enjoy it. His blood, warm, repulsed me. Maybe blood wasn't made for me. It would be cold if it was.

I have thought violence into being. I have slayed thousands of throats in my imagination and I fear I might really bring that into being one of these days. I wonder if thoughts count as blood. For, I would have the blood of many on my hands.

Oh, forgive me, for I am sinning and I fear I would never stop.

I have said your name, never aloud but in whispers no one hears but you. I have spat your name in my head like curses. And nothing ever happened. So, I convinced myself that you didn't care. 

Still, I offer my sins to you as a trade: hunger, cruelty, envy and spite, please take them. Take the body, take the poison, take the creature that won't stop pacing. Strip them out of me. Make me hollow, fill me with peace. Or nothing at all. I no longer care.

If you cannot, if you will not, then damn me properly. Let the hate flow through you properly. Do not leave me alive, choking with regret or guilt that never ends. Let me drown. I would feel the water seeping into my lungs stealing my breath. Maybe after, I'm unconscious, I'd find peace.

And if you really don't care, let this letter rot where it falls. Let it drift like ash into the dark night. Let it stay in the void and I will know for sure that the void and I belong together.

So, forgive me, though I fear forgiveness was never made for me. Still, I write because I'm finding that silence is heavier than sin and I am too lazy to carry both. 

Reluctantly but desperately,

Jamila.