Is there something wrong with me?
My hooves are damaged as they're tied
in a knot, a tight, skin-piercing rope
and a cross in my back.
I want to scream a bleat,
a throat-scraping sob until I'm let go
to wash off the blood of the ones
who made me;
the ones who cradled
and let me die.
"You'll never escape what you're made of!
You can run from your blood,
but not the ones who conceived thee!"
They chant,
red fists in the air
as the spit spew from their mouths
out of sheer anger.
They screech from the sidelines,
blocked by weak slabs of wood.
Sun-bleached flies ring
in my ear holes
the thin skin surrounding it
burning from the hot orb in the sky.
I am named a witch,
the cruel devil himself,
a whore, even.
I had only loved her once
and was deemed unholy.
The hatred and rivalry only began there.
If the lord himself
passed for our sins,
why am I not allowed
to be
the one I want to be?
I tried to be good.
Am I truly no good?
Soon,
my face will be restricted to
a polaroid
in memory of this "sweet, undeserving of pain lamb."
If I'm sweet and undeserving of pain,
why am I in the middle of town,
preparing for hurt?
All of the other lambs
looked at me cruel
and called me weird
and never accepted
me as a living,
breathing thing.
They made fun of me, momma.
They made fun.
They made fun, momma.
But it was all fun!
I know no one would be coming to save me,
from this execution,
so I pray
and I pray
and I've been praying
in this hellscape.
And praying.
And praying.
There's so many unanswered,
so, dear almighty,
are you in the room?
Are you outside,
burning and hurting on the dirt with me?
I feel so alone
and I can't feel the chill wisp
of your holy presence.
I miss him,
my father.
I still hear those words
from the church;
he stomped across the stage-like front
chanting preaches and songs and prayers...
"God loves you, but not enough to save you!"
And all I could think was "is he self aware now?"
Was he self aware of the pain he'd brought upon himself
and I, his sweet, mourning lamb
whilst leaving my life,
abandoning the one he created
with my mother?
The sun burns the cotton shielding my
fragile and pale skin
as the heat stroke finally hits my miniscule brain.
The people break from the sidelines,
pitchforks and wooden stakes in hand.
"So I should pray!" echoes in my mind.
And before I can,
pain strikes through me
as the world goes dark and quiet.
And that, is the story of the sun bleached lamb
I'm still trotting in pain
from my last day.
I regret leaving the faith,
but I never felt like I was meant of it
in the first place.
I watch my former flesh rot;
the same sun bleached flies
have their eight-course dinner.
I still can't believe
it's been only three weeks.
⋆ . ˚ * ༊ 🥩 ༊ * ˚. ⋆
[ 𝔄𝔳𝔞 𝔖𝔭𝔢𝔞𝔨𝔰 ! ]
Props to you if you've noticed any references in this poem! I've made quite a few to Ethel Cain's music and only one to one of my favorite movies, "Carrie", of course, the original. Have a wonderful day, you all! :)
