ORIGINS: The snake had its mouth wide open and we caught a glimpse of someone praying right there, under its fangs, with the snake’s tongue sticking out of their hands.
Most days I can’t tell the difference between wishing and praying. It just feels like more of the same helplessness. I try to tell myself that I am not a child. That I have outgrown the need to hoard the stars, and I have someone else in my heart these days. But it doesn’t work. I wish, but it is what it is. Everything I do is for me. For my own happiness. The fangs of the snake shine brighter than any other star. Selfishness is, and always will be, my sin. It doesn’t matter who lives in my heart. It doesn’t matter whom I pray for. Every word that comes out of my mouth tastes like venom, putting me first.
There was a time when I used to have faith. But then I grew up and I looked outside myself. The stars, all the dreams fell from my eyes, and I paid attention to my surroundings for the first time. And you can spend all your breath telling me that there is good in the world, but I don’t believe in things that I don’t see with my own two eyes. I have spent all my tears, and all I want these days is to slither away. Back in time. To a better place, where there were no snakes. But what good would that do? As you can see, now I don’t even have faith in myself. And I would never forgive myself if I became the first snake in the eyes of a child that is just discovering the world. I would hate myself if my scales replaced the stars in his eyes.
I have heard that some children grow up wishing upon shooting stars. Upon birthday candles. Upon faceless things, as long as snakes. None of those wishes come true, of course. When the light is gone, only the acrid taste of disappointment lingers in the mouth. And sometimes I wonder if it hurts less than the alternative. Because I grew up praying every night. To someone that wasn’t a faceless star. To someone that wasn’t a faceless candle. To someone that had no excuse to turn a deaf ear on me. And I can’t help wondering if this childish betrayal that I can still taste in my mouth wouldn’t be there, if I had never been misled. Faces have mouths. And it should have been obvious that any child would expect an answer.
I don’t know what wishes taste like, but if I had to guess, I would say that they taste like venom. Because that is what the unanswered prayers I have eaten tasted like. Bitter. Like hatred born of desperation, when the silence finally dissolves the walls of your blood vessels, leaving you to drown. But who knows, most wishes are nothing more than whims. Something shiny, and passing, like shooting stars. So, maybe when they don’t come true, the bitterness won’t completely overpower the sweetness you tasted, when you closed your eyes and sent your words into the universe.