Grounds
Mariana Meireles Curado
I grieve the death of my mother tongue. And the version of me who spoke it. I am ravenous for home but I despise it. I have a guilty soul. I think God is mad at me. He knows I am a farce. I pray only when I’m ill. I say half-arsed prayers for others. I never say thank you. Is praying putting your hands together and saying ‘Dear God’ before you speak to Him? How suspiciously easy. Why should talking to God be hard? Why did they not teach me how to pray? I am the daughter of people mad at god. They have doomed me to a purposeless existence and I hate them. I hate these fucking anglicans even more. Duty and service cannot be profitable. You cannot negotiate with god. You people disgust me. Your empty walls and lack of reverence for the beauty of saints, last remnants of the Pagan worlds we burned down. May you be cursed a thousand times. The London sky is the colour of rotten milk. Only godless creatures condemned by birth to live under such sour aboves can produce so much. Produce produce produce produce produce produce produce produce produce produce. Hard work never killed anyone important. You don’t have a favourite month to watch the sunset. You are empty vessels for the devil. Idle hands are glorious. I mourn the dying of my mother tongue in me. I am trapped by laziness and love in lukewarmity. And no one to speak my mother tongue to. And no one to teach me how to pray.
