Eighty-three.

Dear god.
I do not speak to you.
I do not necessarily believe
in most things, but sometimes
I feel like I have to.
If you exist, then you know life
and you know that people occasionally need
to believe in something outside
of themselves.

Dear god.
There is a lot of death, lately.
I am not sure what to do with it.
Everyone keeps saying to me,
"Are you breathing?"
And I take a moment to measure the air,
and I still cannot find a non-scientific
answer.

Dear god.
I am sorry that I can't capitalize.
I like to think of myself
as a brave person. You and I both know
that this is not always the case,
and I often do not know who to apologize to
for my cowardice. Myself, maybe.
It is only me that is left with the Loss.
I am getting scared.

Dear god.
I am making many things, but again,
I'm not sure what to do with them.
Once upon a time, there was always a place.
Hand, heart, home.
The other question:
"How are you?" Shattered.
The word is both smaller and larger
than myself.

Dear god.
The nightmares only stop
when I ask you to make them stop
and I wake up feeling okay
but then I stand up
and there are the tidal waves.
I am sorry that I ask you for things.
I am sorry that I asked him for things.
Grace came from you both.

Dear god.
This is me trying to be optimistic.
I fell out of love with life for a long while.
Add this to my apology list.
I am not certain, but I think that love
means bravery, and bravery means life,
but I can not figure out
if this means that love equals life.
If that's the case,
I guess I'm pretty screwed.

Dear god.
If I promise to believe in you forever,
will you tell me what to do?