Already, I want to go home. Already, I’m getting angry at inanimate objects, growing resentful of the telephone, the printer, the ancient computer. Why should I have to interact with you, ugly promotional pen? All I want is to crawl back into bed and read a book in my underwear. All I want is to be back in my world.

Dear Jesus, all I want is what I had.

Blue eyes, stay away from me. I can see the lies flying from your mouth and spinning webs around us before you even speak. I can hear my own heart readying the compromises I’ll make for you, my brain preparing rationalizations, and what is left of my paltry wisdom warning me that this, like everything, will be over before it starts. In that case, I should tell you–I have never been left for what I couldn’t do. I have always been left for what I would do. That’s right. Move along.

Dear Jesus, all I want is a man who can put together a grammatically correct sentence.

It’s nine, and I wish it was five. It’s five, and I wish it was midnight. All I want is to be with someone. All I want is to be left alone. So much muscle, when all I want is bone. Now, look at all this bone. How I wish I had more muscle.

Dear Jesus, all I want is the opposite of what I have.

We good, godly people do terrible things to each other. Oh, my love, it’s best that we stay put–you here, I there, and so much rock and dirt between us. I mean it. Sit down. What we’re chasing after doesn’t exist, and if you really knew what you were seeking, you wouldn’t want it.

Dear Jesus, all I want is for you to take it all away.

Consider the situation: a candle, a book, a desk lamp, the moonlight pouring through the window and slicing a silver-white sliver across my naked legs. I am a scene of serenity. In my hands, I hold pages. In my lungs, I hold breath. In my body, I hold blood and pain that’s not so bad it’ll keep me up tonight. Why, why can’t that just be enough?

Dear Jesus, all I want is to turn off my brain.

I think of Jacob, wrestling with God in the night. All night, wrestling with God, alone. He’d sent his family away, all of them, and it was just him, on the ground, in the dark, all night as he wrestled with God. You ask me why I don’t believe you could ever understand. This is why. I am Jacob, alone, on the ground, in the dark, wrestling with God night after night after night. And then, I am also Prometheus–each night, the eagle eats away my liver, and every day, it grows back. Fresh muscle. Fresh blood.

Dear Jesus, all I want is to be done.

The hour is never right. It’s too early for this, too late for that. Too old to get started, too young to give up. Already, I am wishing I’d been given different skin. Oh, it’ll only get worse from here. Okay, then, no one has any answers. There’s lightning all around us, and everyone is flying blind. All I want is for someone to tell me the truth. All I want is to know where to run. But I can’t–know or run–and I hobble instead towards the murky, distant “just ahead,” hoping when I get there, there’ll be a place to lie down.

Dear Jesus, all I want is all of it. That’s all.