God Hates Guitars

I once wrote graffiti on the bathroom stall, in my rural and traditional high school:

God hates guitars!

God is kind, and guitars are clenched fist. God is love, and guitars are aggressive posturing.

Even when guitars speak of love, they do it through blood dripping fangs.

–

In my room, in the dark of the night, I play a soft voiced keyboard.

God loves a gentle voice.

Quiet tones, like an angel whispering in your ear. Warm reverb vibrating your heart strings. Echoes of when a summer afternoon was an hour spent in Eden.

–

As I watch the sunrise, I see the truth of it all

A guitar is a man.

I am not a woman, but I don’t want to be a man, with barbs in his flesh, or blood on his fangs, or hunger in his belly.

I want to be an angel, whispering in your ear.

Or at least, make things that can summon one to whisper to me.