The Champagne Soapbox

When you’re young, you can easily recall where you first learned something. Now that I’m older, there are some things I wish I could forget.

When I was little, I had a list of people I prayed for every night. I would run through it, mention world peace, and blanket statement friends and family if not already covered. I did the father, son, and Holy Spirit three times. Said amen three times. Said I loved him, and I hoped he forgave me maybe once. That was on me, I guess.

He punched the wall behind me. Somehow I felt always stronger, even when I acted weak. I ran into the bathroom and locked myself within. I imagine his dad patching up his son’s wooden bruise that night, thinking about how he hoped better for his own daughter.

He loved my body. The way I could slump into a seat and disappear. Sometimes, I feel like I’m still tucked away between impounded feathers and thick brown strands of hair. When you find a penny in the couch, do you throw it away or put it in a jar? Donate a dirty dime to penance and act as though your hands are clean.

We rode to Louisiana in a top-down Porsche and I thought about flying away, landing in the brown bayou. My mom makes the best gumbo when come running for her comfort. No matter the season, she makes me feel better.

He drove the same car my dad does, only black. When I gave him love, he would lose it and beg to find it in the backseat. I sat in the passenger seat, happily willing to let him steer.

When God made Eve using Adam’s rib, did he intend on men to lose themselves constantly and find primal comfort in my female shape? I make eye contact for too long, and I realize they wants to tear me apart until I’m in loose limbs.

They talk through sharp teeth, using soft words like “slow burn” and “sexy” to get to know the parts of myself that I reveal alone in pity. If people confess their sins when they feel guilty, why has no man begged for my mercy?

I’m not sure why when I feel overwhelmed by masculinity, I question God and his plan for me. I ask why he gave his only son instead of a girl, realizing that our existence in outlined by convincing the human world his mother is not a whore. Maybe I ask should ask her what was I made for. If not to be loved, then maybe to be worshipped.

Words from a woman, so controversial it seems. Not one word from a woman in any religious text, and maybe that’s why they are easier for me to trust. Hide from male pride until they recognize my femininity as divinity.

Maybe god is a woman. I was taught to forgive men easily. We would sit in a pew, during silent arguments, and hold hands for Our Father. He never forgave me too easily, even when I asked. I looked at the priest who knew all of our sins, and his eyes told me that it would be over soon. I prayed the rosary as penance, and asked Mary if she loved me too.

She never told me, but I always knew.

Roses follow women, the same way men do.

He punched the wall behind me. I imagine his dad patching up his son’s wooden bruise, thinking about how his son would become a martyr for his own failed lessons.