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Sometimes I speak to God. He tells me confusing things. That must be what it means to be omniscient — to be everywhere, all the time, so much so that simple words lose meaning. Like Amen.

When I was 9, I asked my mother what this sacred seal on all our prayers meant and she smiled and crouched and looked me in my eyes, and said “It's us calling our prayers into reality. We are saying ‘so shall it be.’” And then she smiled and stood up and walked away like she hadn't just told me that within my tongue was the power to call things into reality.

I suppose if I were God, I would be confused by the ‘amen’ too. I would be confused having to be everywhere a person beckons for me, just to have them seal it with a kiss of the lips on the assertion that it shall be. It shall be because they've said it. I'm not God — I just speak to them. But if I were, I think I would be angry at least sometimes.

Sometimes when I speak to God, I ask them why I bleed. I ask them what blood is, why this liquid gives us life, why it can call upon things beyond our understanding. Why does the dripping red from my skin appeal to spirits, covenants, and the things that lurk, crawl, and shift in realms I cannot see. Why was it their son's blood that caused them to turn their head and finally glance at humanity as yet another forgivable thing. Most times, God does not answer. I assume they're busy. But just once, they descended into my room swelling and collapsing on themselves as they whispered to me: “If something gave you life, wouldn't you be willing to give some of it up for what you love?”

And so anytime I bleed. Anytime I remember a moment lost to time, a soft touch lost as a memory on my skin. Anytime I feel the distance between me and you grow and grow, I remember that perhaps I bleed because you were someone I loved.