were I not an atheist, I would not rest
until I had my boot on the throat of the thing you call god
watched the light leave its eyes, spat in its face
and left it for carrion (though even this is an undeserved honor;
to become birdshit is too kind a fate for that blackheart).
I declare this, closer to praying than I have come in years.
selfsame as when I begged for mercy, the thing called god is silent.
like smoke, like mist, it cannot hold my grief
any more than it could reward my faith.
with nothing to tear apart, I burn alive from the inside.
I thirst for revenge; I find nothing but mirages.
like this imagined god, my loss is the wound left by a bullet,
the space where a blown-off limb once grew.
nothing, heavy and merciless and hungry.
the emptiness rewrites the laws of the universe; it chews relentlessly and refuses to let me die.
and when I fight back, my fists connect with nothing.
you cannot destroy a hole. you cannot shatter an absence.
you cannot kill a god that does not exist. you cannot bring back a woman who has died.
Eve Taft is an American writer who lives in County Limerick, Ireland. Find links to her publications at evetaft.wordpress.com, follow her on Facebook at Eve Taft, and read her horror-themed column, “Quaint and Curious Volumes,” every month at Luna Station Quarterly.