I'd forgotten how the bells sound in the morning. Seven times they creep into my head with the sober, pale sun and my head throbs with it. I get to my feet and find that I am not an angel, have no wings as I pull on my shirt and fumble the buttons and fold down the collar. I am not an angel as I comb back my hair, because I swear at God all the while in my head in, vile, twisted words like the teeth of the comb as they catch on a knot. God has woken me and left me in my dark room, with not enough sun, not enough angels to answer the prayers I made in my hushed night last night, my drunken slurs-- I am sure I was hammered. It's the only time I pray.
My head aches with God's given pulse and I wonder if I should go to Church today. Instead, I resolve to bitch out from religion, find a bench in the park, toss some birds some bread. Pigeons, despite the white collars I occasionally find bound around their necks, don't look at me differently than they do anyone else. They have that one eyed inspection, head cocked sideways, sizing me up, but they watch everyone like that-- not like the priests who sniff and watch the confessional mesh like it were some fascinating text to scan their eyes across, a gospel to read and weep over with their big, innocent, liars' eyes. Not the pigeons. They strut, eat, shit, peck at people and don't judge me. I take bread stale as faith from a paper bag and toss them crumbs. In response, they crowd around me like I were God, follow me in hops and skips and jumps and they molt. I want to shed my skin like them, follow a God who feeds me, but I sit on the bench and rustle my paper bag, find more bread crumbs at the folds in the bottom.
I go home that night, and get shitfaced, mumble some prayers. Sitting in the dark, I wonder how long it will be until God brings back the sun.
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