“I am not God.”
It seems to hint of hubris
but in fact
this is my hardest, humblest confession:
I am not God.
Ask me outright if I really want to be
and I will deride the idea:
“Who in their right mind
would want to be God?!
Even God doesn’t want the job.”
But if my tongue is silent then
my life will betray itself loudly:
the desire to fix the world by my own
wisdom (questionable) and willpower;
the certainty that I should fix myself
to save God the trouble — if I could just
live on four hours of sleep;
the belief that I order my own time,
my own path,
my own growth.
My life speaks too candidly
for comfort
when my tongue
takes a break from
spinning its mask of a tale
about ability and control
and prowess —
all of my fondest idols
— but here with knees bent,
tongue and idols fail me.
There is only this to begin
and this to end:
“I am not God.”