Yes, I know, it's not just you and me,
God's here, too. Somehow
he doesn't bother me as much as you.
That's wierd. I understand. But still...
I want you to like me. I guess I start
at the beginning? I used to take Bubba's 
candy and toy cars. The kindergarten teacher 
caught me scratching tables.
In second grade I hit a little girl.
What? You want more? Oh. Just different.
The exact nature of our wrongs?
I'm scared all the time. I'm always into me,
not you, not him, not God. I hide my head 
in mindless games, an ostrich in the sand,
and hurry to anything that promises oblivion
when, unprepared, I fall face-flat to floor.
Simple things I didn't do haunt me 
so I wreck a friendship when she can't recall
my wrong, just knows I avoid her. I lie and cheat
to duck the blame, defame a saint to feel
less odious, to blunt the pain. It's who I am,
the best I've managed yet, abjectly miserable.
So there, you see, I thank you for your time
and kindness to me. I know you hate me now.
You what? How could you love me at all,
much less more? Yes, I feel your love. And God's.