Creator! Creator!

Creator, I don’t want to be me anymore. I want the death that I was given.

I don’t like the things that you smoke or what you put in your nose. My father was a real man.

You shouldn’t have stitched me with a rusty needle and a hatred towards the world that you never tried to mend.

Rather you choose to spend endless nights looking for bodies that will never love you—that is all in the soul, Creator.

These hands are not the ones my mother held. This isn’t the knee I scraped at eight years old.

You know that you took my only chance of peace. I’ll never meet my God like this. You destroyed his image. His once beautiful son was taken away from him.

Maria was a wonderful mother. You can’t look at me without disgust. What’s the point if you're hiding me away?

You don’t understand what you made. You could never love me even if I was made from a stolen blade. Creator, do you feel like him now?

You hold the cross so close to your chest, but he won’t save you. I’ll beg him if I have to.

I know my God forgives but never a man mirroring God’s false image. I’m so horrified, why am I still here, Creator?

I want a chance to crawl towards my death. I want to kill myself.

Look at me! Look at me and realize what you deprived me of!

This is not in the form of God. He won’t save you.