Grant me absolution for all the hearts I have broken.
For breaking up via text, for kissing that other guy, for hiding my affection, for being too afraid, for caring what other people think, for the refusals, for the blue balls, for the gossip, for playing with your feelings, for all the times I made you feel small and for all the times I didn’t say ‘I love you, too’ when I really should have.
Grant me absolution for leaving the headlights on again.
Grant me absolution for all the drugs I have done.
Drugs to numb and drugs to mask and drugs to soothe and drugs to feel, drugs as self-medication, drugs as coping mechanism, drugs to sit with discomfort, drugs to sit with loneliness, drugs because of boredom and drugs because of pain, drugs because I never did learn to love myself and drugs because it’s impossible to hate yourself all the time and still stay sober.
Grant me absolution for breaking into the pool to go skinny-dipping with the wrong kind of boy.
Grant me absolution for all the lives I have harmed.
For hitting that chipmunk, for stealing that lip gloss, for betraying that friend, for not calling back, for not reaching out in time, for emptying that gas tank, for spilling red wine on that white dress I borrowed, for saying hurtful things, for omitting the truth, for not pulling my weight in that group project, for smoking in that stranger’s bathroom, for forgetting to feed the parakeets.
Grant me absolution for reading too much Nietzsche.
Grant me absolution for killing God.
An apostate, a recovering Christian, a former Lutheran, a harlot, a whore, an autonomous woman who just likes to fuck, an Existentialist that can’t abide the opiate of the masses, an empath that can’t ignore the God Paradox, a Secular Humanist with a conscience and an atheist that can’t reconcile fundamental childhood Sunday-School truths with all of the suffering in this world.
Grant me absolution for that night at the Borgata.
Grant me absolution for inevitably fucking up my children.
Children at whom I yell, children for whom I set a bad example, children who are my reason for breathing, children who just want to be loved, children whom I do not always enjoy, children who are allowed to make mistakes, children who idolize me when I do not deserve it, children for whom I just want to do my absolute best and children for whom I fall short.
And grant me absolution for being human, because I’m still kind of figuring things out over here.
Shannon Frost Greenstein (she/her) resides in Philadelphia with her children and soulmate. She is the author of “These Are a Few of My Least Favorite Things,” a full-length book of poetry available from Really Serious Literature, and “Pray for Us Sinners,” a short story collection with Alien Buddha Press. Shannon is a former Ph.D. candidate in Continental Philosophy and a multi-time Pushcart Prize nominee. Her work has appeared in McSweeney’s Internet Tendency, Pithead Chapel, Litro Mag, Bending Genres, Parentheses Journal, and elsewhere. Follow Shannon at shannonfrostgreenstein.com or on Twitter at @ShannonFrostGre.
Back Patio Press 