Apocalyptic Rabbit Speaks

Break-Up Letter to Satan

I loved you so much, Satan,

but that was before I learned the world;

the things I can say I know for sure now.

I was impressionable

and easily influenced as a child;

they told me I was supposed to “love Jesus”

and I really thought I did there for a while,

but it’s only right that you know

it was always about you–

you were always in the back of my mind:

I fantasized that I was living in your world,

I imagined what it would be like to run roughshod through

the fiery, burning meadows of your upside-down paradise;

I dreamed of exploring (by torchlight, of course)

the massive caverns lit by the shivering light of a fire

that seemed to be everywhere.

But to love you, and to hold on to you,

for you to be real in any kind of a way

that would find some place in my heart

that even I couldn’t clean on my own;

this meant that I would also have to embrace

and love those obnoxious, arrogant, Downy-soft angels

and that ridiculous “God” who looks like a drunk veteran

and that mincing, meek, little hippie savior

with his soft, pussy-willow Q-tip of a staff;

that guy who told all the apostles to “go fish”;

little goody-two-sandals,

the one who had epilepsy in front of the bank

and got in hot water at the Mall,

the one who let little kids come up to see him

when adults were asking him to hurry up

and fix their crotch disease.

But to love him, and to  hold on to him

and for him to be real in any sort of way

that would find some place in my heart

that even I couldn’t clean away,

that meant that I would also have to embrace

all of that Old Testament anger bullshit,

all that racist talk-radio justice.

I’d have to say my Hail Marys while

doing my part for border control;

the problem was holding onto Jesus

just so that I could hold on to you

meant that I would have to accept

all the lying and killing and sacrificing

that justifies Israel and Palestine,

neither of which are justified,

all that sexism, homophobia and retardation

that justifies the 700 Club and the Taliban,

neither of which are justified,

all that pride, blind thinking and patriotism

that justifies flight school frauds and Abu Ghraib,

neither of which are justified.
I hope you understand, beloved Satan,

you know how much I wanted to be with you;

you could hear me talk in my teenage sleep;

and you walked with me whenever I went sleepwalking.

I wanted to be just like you:

anything to be able to get all of the things I wanted

but I would not sell my soul

if it meant my asking price was truth.

I worshiped you like some kind of a rock star,

even at the expense of a chance at

seeing the human race for what we really are;

you were practically a poster on my bedroom wall

next to the Stones, next to the Pistols,

next to the Escher print of the stairways that

led to doorways that led to stairways that led to walls.

What I’m saying is I grew up, Satan.

It took me a while, I’ll admit it, but eventually

I found it, the only way out of the Garden of Nonsense.

I was hungry and so I bit into a real, factual apple,

and when I did, I acquired a taste for the truth.

That’s why I had to say goodbye.

It wasn’t really anything you did.

I never stopped loving you,

and you never stopped being cool.

I still smile whenever I see a pitchfork;

I’m sentimental that way, what can I say?

For what it’s worth;

it wasn’t you; it was me.

April 15, 2009 by Rich Boucher.