Morning church bells ring to the tune of disappointment.
The pews are full of hopeful people.
The prayers come in whispers.
Whispers that so desperately want to sound like a melody.
The tornado of voices whip into the oblivion to a God who sits atop a marble throne.
He lets the phone ring into an infinite answering machine.

A stack of books on my desk become a fort I hide myself in when life feels like it’s too much to handle.
Asterisks and bullet points.
My hand is the needle of a seismograph jotting notes at the rate of a 9.0 about the earthquake of my life that always feels like it’s crumbling to shambles.
I look for the answers in words.
I pray to a universe that only echoes my hopeless desperation into the void.
I beg for things to always make sense.
And if he’s answering, 
It’s always disappointments.

My mother has invented the language derived from deception.
Where words mostly mean the opposite.
A truth is actually a lie.
Empathy means hate.
Enabling means support.
And I love you unconditionally really means that it always come with conditions.
That your love can only be worth the amount of times they can hurt you.
Addiction is really the only means to happiness and a high, the only way to find purpose.

The tiny voice in my head sounds like a 6 year old girl.
Her prayers drone on in cascading pleads.
Sunday mornings are for families.
My mother hits her pipe in her car in the church parking lot waiting for the cloud of smoke to reveal her truth.
I sit in the back of the church asking my God for a way to make my mother choose me instead of this drug she’s made her deity. 
My whole lifetime of prayers, and God always answers me the same,
A person will always worship what they love
The most.