• Tealight Press

God doesn't play dice by Blue

God doesn't play dice

Like any angel, I have four faces.

Traditionally, they’re meant to be a man, a lion, an ox and an eagle, of course.

I have a man, a woman, a monster and a void.

Each morning I wake up and take my head between my hands and crackcrackcrack

my neck like a merry-go-round, sending me spinning. I stand in front of my mirror

and I watch the blurring swirl as best I can.

If I’m a man, I do my make-up. Smokey eye and a nude lip. Enough to push me to the

edge of ‘uncomfortable’ for any devils I bump into on the streets. They glare and

twitch their tails, clench their pitchforks, and I draw my fiery sword and slaughter

them where they stand. I drape myself in rainbows and preach about love under

LED lights from the sanctity of my screen. I have more followers than God.

If I’m a woman, I get to stay in that spinning space. I’m a babe, a bitch, a snob and

slut, prude, plain, prideful all at once. I move like a candyfloss cloud, melting away

under hot sticky touch of strangers who try to tear chunks and come away empty

handed. Some days I swish my skirt and kick my kitten heels up when I get to kiss a

girl – others, I strain and scream, coming up through the glass floor bloody and

cursing, arms knotted with effort, eyes wild, laughing defiant. I offer poisoned apples

and a honeycrisp smile to anyone who looks at me wrong.

I’m mostly a monster. More days than not, that fatal crackcrackcrack clicks into

place and I see fangs and fur and dead blank eyes darker than shadows. I used to

shave off the fur, file down the fangs, choose. But I was always wrong. I’d look like a

woman but behave like a man. Or dress like a man but talk like a woman. Or move

like a woman but think like a man. Or a hundred other human rules I hadn’t realised

was a binary code, executed in perfect order or ERROR, ERROR, ERROR.

Nowadays, I come as I am. I got tired of lurking in cramped closets, flinging myself

under the bed whenever anyone came too close. I strut the streets in six-inch

stilettos, or kick ass in bunny slippers. If I meet another monster and I like their face,

I let them know. My wings are growing, and I leave behind a trail of feathers like

perfume, silky against the skin of the people I love.

I still talk to God. He is happy.

One time, that fourth face is going to click into being. That empty darkness bereft of

stars. Every morning, I play Russian roulette, and for a few spinning seconds I get to

stand outside myself and watch with mounting horror. It is my most fervent prayer,

because I know what will happen when the void’s eyes finally open.

The world will end.

Blue is a queer and curious specimen that escaped from an abandoned museum before classification. Their writing explores adopted identities, faith, and fucking the system. You can find their works under bluie.writes on Twitter, Instagram and Reddit, or by carving a plea into a pebble under the full moon and giving it to the sea. 

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