Dear Abel--I finally understand.

The girl on the subway wore a fake fur coat and no shoes,
had holocaust eyes, starved blue-white skin. A cut smeared indian-
red across her body, from her heart to her temples--a string of ruined flesh
to hold a dumb puppet together, picked up and propelled through
a series of delusions by some sort of inevitable angry deity,
practicing his power games on eighty-eight pounds of sacrificial
lamb. Too young for her sexuality, and too old to be so childishly sophisticated.

She sold some kind of heroin-chic, but it was
accidental, the bracelet calls her cracked up and she knows
it's not all you think it is. She steals the government, abuses
her life support, disowns her negligence; her bitter negligee. Yeah
so this is what happens to girls with Gods in their heads.
They go on to give birth to little genocides, they hallucinate what
becomes real.

You'd better not love your daughters, fathers, because when they
grow up they could end up like the girl-prophet of staccato club lights,

the saint whose wraith body broke in two clean halves, wracked with

her kind of pretty terror.  You know the kind; enlightened. They would
dissect you. They would destroy you. Your libido stings her, you
feel strange when she's fifteen and wearing too-short skirts--you
know how her boyfriends think about her because...you really are
all alike, age and eyesight aside. You'd never act on it, but you aren't alone in it.
It’s Biblical, it's deranged, it's illegal, just like everything else.

Your bed is burning, boy. The visionary on the subway, streetlights
in her opium eyes? She left you something to remember her by.

Dear Abel--I finally understand God's plan.