MY EARLIEST MEMORIES ARE OF BURNING — youth to a flame is what repetition to sorrow, metal to skin; singeing. you want freedom, but you cannot live without the chains. you want to be saved, but what of your skin when your scars are gone? what to show for all the smoke in your lungs if they heal? — I USED TO BELIEVE MY FINAL ONES WOULD BE, TOO.
but now the sky welcomes convenient mercy — WAS IT NOT CONVENIENT WHEN MY BLISTERS BROKE OPEN AT THE TOUCH OF THORNS THAT WRAPPED AROUND THEM? WHERE WAS MERCY WHEN I WAS A CHILD CRUCIFIED FOR ITS CREATION?
AND IT SAYS TO ME — I MADE YOU THIS WAY. I FORGIVE YOUR FILTH. but the filth is ashes, i want to scream. the filth is my own blood and pus and i do not forgive you.
i whisper instead, and it stings just as hard — YOUR HANDS CANNOT WASH AWAY SINS. YOUR HANDS HAVE NOT TASTED BLAME.
AND HOW WOULD YOU KNOW? — asks the sky, but it feels like it's really telling me that i do not know anything at all — ALLOW THEM TO TRY.
MY WORDS COME OUT BLOODIED. TEETH BITE AT THE SILENCE.
BUT I WILL ALWAYS KNOW I WAS ONCE FILTHY. YOU WILL NEVER WASH AWAY THE GUILT YOU BORE ME INTO.
YOU ARE READING
HUMILITY
Poetrya distasteful collection of unholy experiences. © all rights reserved juno / summertwine
