When I woke up, a leather bound bible sat on the hospital table beside me. The pages were gilded, and so thin they were translucent, the black text bleeding together through the pages. I threw it out the window, shards of glass sprinkling onto the floor to be crunched by the nurses' boring sneakers, wedged there to go home with them to their families who sit with dinner waiting. Or maybe they take the shoes off, leave them in the car, leave the dirt and sadness outside their own places of refuge. I didn't wear shoes; the dirt and sadness just seeped into my skin with the glass.
Maybe god still loves me anyway.