I know you have this Plan: this crystalline vision of me at twenty, or maybe twenty-five dressed in an intricately beaded white gown inside a temple so flawless, cold, and pure that I am constantly afraid I might leave behind a fingerprint, a smudge, a speck of dust, kneeling at that sacred altar across from a man making eternal vows of both love and submission, while you watch from the front row in a straight-backed chair, your legs crossed at the ankles. And there are tears in your eyes because there I am, following the Plan— and it’s not your Plan, but God’s, the one set in heavenly stone since I came into existence. I know none of this was in the Plan: I was never meant to fall for a woman or hate myself or watch my faith evaporate like scalding steam— still there, somewhere in the atmosphere, just scattered and intangible. That faith has followed me from my birth, from my christening, from my middle name— Anna, a woman in the Bible whose story I don’t think I could recall at gunpoint. My own story is one I don’t think I could recall at gunpoint when so much of who and what I am is buried under impenetrable miles of shame and confusion and blindness I would need far more than a seer stone in a hat to reverse.
i cannot follow your plan (via fragileabsolution)
