I had a shrine once, here in my bedroom. Then everyone said shrine was too offending a word. It was an alter, then. Consecrated, holy in a way only I understood. I felt comfortable praying there, until someone asked what I was praying too, surrounded by inscense and silk and candles. "Whoever will listen," was my reply. But I thought about it more before I came back here.
It never seemed to work. Everyone else I knew prayed and felt like there were results. I prayed and felt like I'd been whispering words only I would ever hear. I thought about it, and told my mother that I broke every God I'd ever prayed to. In her eyes there was the question of why, how. She's known me long enough to know the questions I will and won't answer, and hugged me instead.
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Lived & Died Where Worlds Collide
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