sitting in a plush chair in my mothers driveway yelling at a man in a mock frueduan voice.
its dusk and probably spring, the man's white van is parked and smells like burnt rubber, i can here the tick tick ticking of oil hitting pavement

"do you feel ze penile envy?"
no
"ven you ride a bike dost it geev sexual gratification?"
the man makes a scissors cutting paper motion with his hand
"WORDS MY MAN, ANSWER WEES WORDS"
i spin around in the chair, launch myself forward and smile
the man looks terrified, its my mothers pastor, he knows im playing a game with him, more like testing him
he lifts his face and its twisted, he twitches his nose, i can't help but laugh
"vell? vhat eest your problem? i am not zee crazy one."
i break character and say maybe to him but more to myself, i am not the crazy one.
his hands, i am fixed on his hands, his gold wedding band looks tight and tired from years of being rubbed at. his fingers unlace and pleadingy stretch out toward me.
please, he says in a voice so sincere it stings with sarcasm, let me help you, i understand you are lost and need meaning
"i don't need meaning or god,"i interject, "i just need anxiety medication."
i quickly switch back and finger a smooth cherrywood pipe, puckering my lips into a half smile and squinting. this man of god sees all my demons, smells them, the distant scent of burnt hair,the sickly sweet cloak coiled and black.
"now meester tell me, why do you a man auf god wees to dig deep into my riddlers brain?" im screaming and crying but completely unaware. in the back of my mind i wonder when it started raining, why the dogs are howling from inside as though upset by thunder. i am the storm i realize.
"what is it you know? what divine means have you to heal my crooked mind?"
the pastor takes a step forward on the ball of his foot. i am the master, he is the beast.
i can heal you,
oh its that mocking voice again,
i am well versed in the body of christ, only a man with the knowledge of lord our savior can heal a hell ravaged mind like your own. all the doctors and pills are smoke and mirrors, shamans from the devil. i can save you, you are sick.
" save me like you saved my half dead mother." i feel somethinh rising
" save me with words of morality over rationality?"
im boiling over, grinding the flute of the pipe between my teeth, breathing in the smoke of my fathers ancient orange flapped tobacco, coughing and spitting like some bastardized depiction of a female devil.
"SAVE ME SAVE ME WITH YOUR DEATH MARCH HYMNS AND BURNING BUSH TONGUE.i can no longer talk, ze dockture haz left for zee night."
i rise from my chair with elongated movements, i may be crude, but i still i understand the grander of my dramatics. two steps toward the door, and its back, scraping at my esophagus, plucking my vocal chords. i stand, rigid and proud, tiny hammers through my dry mouth, cracking every tooth. "im rather angry aren't i?"
my fingers tips are numb, dissolving.
the man gets into his car and calls his wife to come clean me up.
but its clear now, to me at least. i am crazy, bat shit fucking insane, but i am also today tomorrow and every day after that. i am a holy shiver, rabid with truth. these men of god, they don't care for life or death, they don't care about personal triumph or tragedies no one does.