A writer in poet’s skin doesn’t make her any less of a sheep…
Her heavy eyes guilted with the past.
The holy water didn’t burn as I had expected it to.
Marked by my palms and forehead, I wept…
I am to name him, but can’t take the name he was promised.
The skeptic in me will not triumph over the need to heal.
He lashed out with I hate you as I pushed for words to bleed from
Broken in front of the crowd, I stone myself…
Waiting for clarity, knowing faith won’t happen in a weekend—too respectful to leave like I ought.
She told me I had the most amazing grace about me—so far from hearing I was graceless.
My story rambled its way out in word vomit; I hate to say his name.
They wrapped my womb in gauze as I mourned the death of my sexuality.
If God put me on this path to healing, he doesn’t know me as well as he should.
I will not force myself to pretend to believe in truths I can’t wrap reality around.
Praying permanence to a cloak wrapped round the cross solidifies the unworthiness I feel in my own life—I am not ready to give in to faith.
How can I burry something that was thrown out as hazardous waste?
Curling up in fetal position, shielding myself from conversion—what am I doing here?
I don’t believe…
