the habit of being

Forgive me, sweet father on the other side of the glass, for I am full to overflowing with sin. This is not the full of my first confession.

I am neither Catholic nor any other brand of Believer for I am too proud to love a Goddess and too sexist to love a God. I have in years past failed as a pagan, witch, and magician because my internal compass made only ovals and the astral plane I found was nothing but smoke and floating. I couldn’t even remember the words to the spells let alone shoot bright lights from my forehead or provoke any goddess to enter my body. At the dead of midnight I went out in my front yard in my grandmother’s dress, lit candles, and spilled Costa Rican vanilla down my arms. Could my my soul now belong to the Devil? I am an atheist and a heathen and now worship anything I can find a faint trail of beauty left in. I have not even read the Bible, save the last chapter, though I have been known to criticize those who live by it. I laugh at women who wear large gold crucifixes around their necks. I cannot say a Hail Mary or an Our Father because I do not know the words. Still, my mind becomes full of religious symbols I cannot begin to grasp. I am obsessed with sin and saintliness and I find myself yearning more fervently to die a martyr. I find religion pretty. I am a walking sacrilege.

I have lusted deep within my heart. My mind and heart are known to fill with unclean thoughts and images. I have too much faith in love. I think my love of another could purify me no matter what sins against the world and heavens I commit. My love and lust have been directed at creatures more delicate than I, for I want only to possess things of beauty. I find women more beautiful than men. What good could there be without softness? I see this girl and I can think of nothing but wanting to touch her, run my fingers through her hair, paint her face hips breasts neck heart crimson with my lips, learn new things about fruits of all flavors. And when this I cannot have I only think it in my own heart while committing further sin in a locked room with red light. I do not want only to have but to be had as well. I think of men taking possession of me. I have even dreamt of rape. I have thought many perverse things and did not even have the decency to keep them to myself. I have scribbled them down in old notebooks and have even put them up for grabs in a public domain. I am a sick minded thing.

I have envied those more beautiful than I am. I have envied those more faithful, more true, and more together. I have envied those who have experienced unthinkable horrors. I have envied those who have seen Vienna. I have envied those who are brilliant. I have envied those with talent. I have envied those who are intelligent. I have envied those who know things. I have envied those who understand their thoughts. I have envied those who are humble. I have envied those who are loved. I have envied those who do not think too much.

I have thought too highly of myself. I have fancied myself an artist. I look down on people who do not have as much culture as I do, though I do not have much. I am arrogant and pretentious and a snob. But I have also despised myself. I have wanted to hide under rocks. I have felt like I could never live up to my own standards. I have felt shallow and meaningless and unworthy. I have pitied myself. I have considered suicide. I cannot keep of one opinion. my moods run away with me and one moment I will be weeping uncontrollably and the next I will be perfectly content. I have hated people for being above my level and I have hated people for being below it. I have hated the people I love. When I have not hate anyone I have been either in an unhealthy state of obsession or one of complete apathy. I am confused.

I have cared more for myself than for my neighbor. I have often been greedy and unkind. When I have been fortunate enough to have found those rare things of beauty I have wanted to keep them all for myself instead of sharing them with others. I have never been satisfied.

I have lied to myself and everyone I know. At times I myself do not even know when I am being truthful and when I am not. I am not to be taken seriously, yet I cannot bear it when I am tossed aside as one who knows nothing of what she says.

I have neither loved nor respected my father, because I do not have the capacity to forgive. yet still I expect forgiveness from others without haste.

I am horrid but at times I do not even care because maybe it just means I am creative. people say I am creative. I try so hard to make it so. I worry about how others see me. I let petty things make me so miserable. I wallow in my misery. I eat it for berries.

I care too much about my appearance. I have attempted to seduce.

And I am very, very afraid