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  • i’d only start praying as soon as I stopped throwing up, for the relief to last long enough to get in one more song and then a few more drinks before the express changed to the local, so that i didn't have to spend my light bill on a cab. then i’d stop. exhale, and wait. expect, reverse peristalsis, and savor a freshly broken sweat before it turned to chills.

    these days, i kick it to god on a regular basis. i pursue our conversations with the bittersweet uncertainty of reciprocation. in my imagination god is a bespectacled being in a tiny office along an isolated hallway, who sits at a dimly lit and cluttered desk stacked to the ceiling with folders of the world’s prayers and sins. i sit outside on the carpet and talk through the door. sure, i ask for things. like, please have that boy at the deli counter ask me on a date, because i’m running out of lipstick. but i don’t hold my breath. i apologize. i chatter. i laugh and ask for patience. sometimes i cry, and when i do, i’m giving my fear and gratitude to something much greater than myself.
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