I am God’s teenage daughter,
And She is my unrelenting Mother.
I sob into Her arms because I am ugly and ask Her why She made me so.
She brushes my hair and tells me about the day She and my Father met.
God tells me I am ungrateful, so I whine.
I get grounded for a week.
She bakes my birthday cake as I frost the cookies We made last night.
I try on dresses as God waits outside the fitting room, scrolling on Her phone.
I want Her to sit on my bed late at night as I tell Her about the girl from school
With the blonde hair
That I am barely even friends with.
And for Her to rub Her hand across my back,
And tell me that She loves me,
And always has,
And always will.
I want Her to know me, and yet I refuse to speak.
I forget that She, too, was once a teenage girl.
Her dark eyes seem so far removed from mine.
God and I get into a fight after my play rehearsal one Monday evening,
And all I want is to scream.
I beg for something raw, something cold and hard that I can hit.
We are not one and the same. I plead.
She does not listen.
Something within me knows She never will.
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