Our God Lives in Teaspoons


When I count
teaspoons of sugar into coffee, tea and other things
which stain your teeth,

I always add three.

You have surprisingly strong ankles and
I live
in the knowledge that no-one will ever be my friend.

When I pour milk, I think
about how you hate cream.

When I put my socks on, I think about
how I hate myself
how you look at me
as if I am less than human, when
I look at you and don’t want to admit I am scared.

People are made to hurt people, and
daily, we refute our natures.

Dogs are made to eat rabbits, but we
eat rabbits, dogs and other things which aren’t human.

We tell ourselves that we aren’t things.

You tell yourself that I am unique in being a thing, and I
tell myself that I am unique in being an object.

No-one can hurt me if I am different.
Breaking an object is not a hate crime.
I wish I’d thought to say that
when you yelled at me for breaking the garden gate, or
the oven door, or
your view of me as a person.

I used to tell you that our God lived in teaspoons
and Jesus lived in knives.
God could be anyone,
standing on the corner
offering to make me someone who
didn’t break anything.

One day, I woke up feeling like I belonged in the world and
you told me to get away from you.

I wish I’d thought to tell you that
breaking an object is not a hate crime,
and that killing something which lives for you is
only your right.

Basically, I am
only your right.

Without you, I’m much more impressive. You hate me and
I walk into the world and hurt people.

I tell you that I wish you could see me
in context.

I look
very expensive
when I’m angry and somebody ugly is crying.
I look very different
when I am trying to fix something
no-one else can.

I wish
that I’d thought to say
that I remembered being a person, and that you are not the only reason
I exist.

I wish that I’d thought to tell you that loving you is a thing I do on purpose. I wish I’d known how to explain that our dogs love us even when we feed them an hour later than usual.

If we starved them, they’d love us.

I am no longer an object but, sometimes, I wonder whether who I am is nearly enough for you to stay here, drinking tea with me at midnight. When I was younger, you were a given even if many happy years with you weren’t. Now that I’m older, I live with the knowledge that every minute of a long life could be the first one I spend

alone.

This is not to say
that, every day, you make me feel as if
you hate me.

You love me.

I just —

I know that if you ever left me I would
spend
the next sixty or seventy years of a full life by myself
putting three sugars into
everything.

I don’t take sugar.

You are so careful to remember this that I feel I don’t deserve
your attention.

I am concerned that you might spend a full life with someone else remembering how many sugars they take.


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