04.24.00
01.09.04

Dear God,
I know I’m depressed. I want to disapear
myself. I want to curl up in a warm blankety
cave and sleep for a hundred years. I can’t
afford meds and psychiatry, and the therapist
won’t see me, anyways. Could you please help?
I have dreams of cutting off pieces of me,
earlobes, labia, fleshy pre-cellulite chunks of
excess thigh. Of carving me down to my own pure
skeleton. Of burning my skin off with
cigarettes. I just don’t really want to be me
anymore. Could I please wake up as someone
else? If I wish very hard and say all
my prayers and eat my vegetables without
complaining and stand up straight and play with
others in age appropriate manners and
send my grandmas thank you notes for sweaters
and never write little poems about
the smell of rotting flowers with
black crayons on the naked white walls.
If I promise to be very, very good? Could
I just wake up with a happy nuclear
family? I’ll brush my teeth after every meal
and floss daily, I’ll get all my shots
without crying or making a fuss, and I’ll
never, ever tell anyone about the things that
rub/bump against in me in the dark. I’ll
stop eating candy and wear Mary Janes,
I won’t tell anyone I’m a Satanist. I’ll go to
Sunday school and do my homework, I’ll tithe my
allowance cheerfully every week and volunteer in
nursing homes on holidays. I’ll sweep and wash
dishes and keep my room tidy as a pin, if only.
If only I could just wake up in
Pleasantville. In a nice little house off
Main Street. In the American Dream. Maybe I
should just become alcoholic. Anyways, if you
could please try to find a way to help me
then I most surely would appreciate it.
Scuffedly Yours,
Shayna Maydela