I drove through your neighborhood the other day. your city’s name tastes like bile in the back of My throat, but some roads just can’t be avoided. it got Me thinking about you in a way I haven’t in a while. thinking about how stupid it is every barn on that road looks like your grandparents’. thinking how I wanted for months to tear at the wrists you pinned down. how unfair it is the God you believe in puts the weakest people in the strongest bodies, how He supposedly loves all His children equally, but only made half of them penetrable and small. that’s the thing about your God—He’s full of those little ironic contradictions. though, I do hope this phrase, at least, is true: 

He gives His toughest battles to His strongest warriors. 

’cause if that’s the case, you’re gonna regret ever embattling Me. if I ever see that basement again—the one where I curled in and in on Myself ’til all that remained was a knot of a girl cowering in My abdomen, wondering, how could you do that to Me when I kiss My mother with this mouth?—I will use all My remaining strength to pour acid over the whole place and watch it disintegrate like your moral character, throw a lit match to scorch the mess of what’s left in My wake. as you watch in horror at what the wrath of a woman scorned really looks like, I will turn, slowly, backlit by flames, for once unafraid, and remind you when you meet your Maker you’re so fond of, He’ll find you baptized in the tears you wrang from Me. I hope He gives you everything you’ve earned in your life of cowardice. in that moment, you’ll stare at Me, bewildered, still sure after all this time you never did anything wrong. it will be then I admit to you the one time I was wrong. I was wrong to waste so much of My time coddling you through breathless, soul-depleting moments of precarious sanity at four in the morning because, in this one instance, you were right all along: 

you should hate yourself.