My Empty Creator

// excerpt from Intensive: Women in Literature

“Puis Barbie a rencontré le Prince Charmant,” Mme. Angela said. TAn unrealistic expectation that Disney movies imposed on me until recently.

I held onto the fantasy that I would find the one, the only one. With each failure, the fantasy dissipated, a part of my self-worth questioned.

Did I not deserve well, the best? If God has designated one for me, where is He? Where is The One for me?

I would carve something out of wax, something that doesn’t exist, to ransom my frustrations But, as a carpenter I must reconcile that my creation does not — perhaps, cannot — exist.

As I
carve off each scrap of oak, an inch of my own flesh peels off.
I want to leave my creation unfinished, as my own creator left me.

When I think about it, I am just like my creator.
I blame this on You, You hypocrite.
You make honesty one of your holy commandments, but You fail to uphold it yourself.
Where were you, after all my tithes and offerings? Where were you when I stitched my many-colored coat?

Do not blame me. I do not know any better.
My creator left me.