The world was born dead. A swollen unmoving mass, mottled greys on blue. If God could breathe life into even the most hopeless cases; this in particular, then why couldn't you repair my soul and glue together the broken pieces of my heart? You call yourself a healer, the ultimate irony, you don't know it but I saw you last week, crushing a butterfly beneath your thumb, stealing her freedom as innocently as you take mine. I hate that you don't seem aware of it; or that I don't even care.
I bet I know how the earth's mother must have felt, if it even had one. She would have wept, her tears like acid, leaving their mark on her skin as they made their way down her face; a lasting reminder of the pain she felt. When she was done crying her face must've looked like a map, the lines crossing and twisting until they showed the way to misery. Sometimes I feel that way, when you look at me like you don't know who I am. At times like that, you're a stranger too.
When the earth drew its first breath God must've felt proud; his hard work had paid off and he could sit back and put his feet up, comfortable as he watched the world slowly destroy itself; imploding from the inside out. I pretended that could be us but God help me, whenever you fall, I run to pick you up, bearing your weight and taking your pain; it hurts, but I knew it would.
As the world grew older it metamorphasized, turning into something not even it would recognise, though it forgot to form a chrysalis, so when the transformation was complete, it didn't look quite right. I didn't have a protective layer either when I was developing, something you took advantage of; you're the perfect parasite, you know you're wanted.
When the earth was mature it looked back at its life and admitted to its mistakes so the healing and forgiveness could begin. I'll never admit you were a mistake; how could I? You're my life.
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