faith is a verb
i don't speak prayer. my syllables break like loaves of bread when i try to speak anything but the language my father taught me when he drove me to his nephew's headstone and said the fucker loved the high more than he loved breathing. once my sister and i learned what death was, there were two ways to go. we split like veins: she ran to the nearest chapel and prayed so much that it left permanent creases in her knees, each groove a different milagro. she weaved rosaries in her sleep. i couldn't decide what to have faith in—boys, girls, zoloft, a hospital, prozac, lexapro, a girl, no god. but i wanted a savior.
there are different ways to reach enlightenment. i don't measure my days by my blessings; instead, i measure time by the number of antidepressants i've exhausted, deadlines for my death and their extensions, colors i've painted my bedroom walls. yellow is the most prominent. i didn't worship anyone, but i became a disciple of van gogh when i decided i needed a change. i followed his teachings—yellow will bring you closer to heaven. i knew it was flawed logic, a rejected hypothesis other suicidal kids debunked years ago. i just liked the idea of experimenting, until that paint watched me die and didn't do a damn thing except reflect jaundice.
now the walls are white. they stain easy. i clean blood after snot after sweat all by myself because i know i have to save me, but i still wish i could hand the wet rag to someone else, go back to the hospital and dissolve into medical records on a shelf, collapse on the plastic bed and never move again.