Bleached Hands

You threw bible verses down my throat and painted my hands white.
You told me purity is perfection and sin is the thing you do but don’t tell anyone about.
You told me I make God angry.
You told me I make God sad.
You told me I have to work for Gods love, you told me if I didn’t go to church he would be upset.
You told me I need human guidance, words and rules
Because rules keep you safe.
Rules are the blanket you wrap yourself up in,
And when you break them you beg for forgiveness because
You told me I make God sad.
You told me Jesus made me white as snow,
But that sin makes me black.
And you told me I was always sinning,
So which was I?
You told me sin makes me impure
And that I’m always sinning,
But I have to be pure.
When your words didn’t match the ones written on the bible in my throat,
You corrected me with more words spun in circles above my head with sticky saliva dripping from their curses clawing into ears and eyes and nostrils until all I breathed and saw and heard and felt
Was your self-sabotaging self-hating self-destroying lying “truths.”
My heart beat for the words I learned to rehearse until it lay exhausted and bleeding on your desk.
I begged for your purity,
For your conviction,
For your perfection.
I begged to be more like you.
Like a wandering homeless half-dead soul I prostituted my sanity for your socially rewarding vanity.
When all the anger finally caught up to me,
I ran.
I ran to nothing because nothing was safer than trying to battle the opposite of what you told me.
Nothing.
Empty.
Alone.
Suffering from memories of the hurting aching bleached hands.
But it’s better than all the pain you caused me.
Nothing.
Empty.
Alone.
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