I’m not sure what rumbles in my throat,
A bitter laugh or the choke of tears.
Either way, I don’t move much,
My body a thousand shatters,
My blood like make-up on my skin.
Mary’s statue doesn’t look so good anymore,
Broken into pieces like my soul,
Shattered upon my head after
Your iron hand connected the two.
She doesn’t look so virginal anymore,
Nor do Christ’s wounds seem so severe anymore.
You’ve grown me to feel like
All those eyes of crucified men
Are staring at me as if I’ve sinned.
You want me to believe I’m wrong.
You want to believe you’re always right.
You carry about as if you are sanctity personified.
You, Father, are not.
I would say it if I could, but the beating you gave
In the name of God is still leaving me breathless.
Do you ever wonder if you’re wrong,
If you’re a fool for justifying your anger
With God as your witness?
I wonder what it is you feel inside.
Do the crosses burn into your soul,
Or do they make you feel like the next prophet,
God’s new servant completing His will?
I’ll tell you this:
If you are God personified, then let me go to Hell,
For if you are my Savior, the world is mad.
If God exists, then I pray He strikes you down
And resurrects me with all His love and grace.
You are not God.
You are not sanctimonious.
I will never let you rule me,
Nor bring me to the promised land.
You will not take my life,
Nor rule as my Lord.
I will survive you.