Notes

House Of God? (Aug 17 2014)

Blank stares and cold faces adorned with fake lipgloss smiles bobble around like masked kites on the wind. I stay away from the crowds, afraid they'll walk right through me, as I am nothing but a ghost. Their eyes fall on me, then readjust to someone behind me, for I am invisible, all but one step away from non-existent. But I like it that way. It's convenient to be see-through. This camouflage is quite effective; I use it as a shield from the judging glares. But sometimes the glass cracks, and the ink seeps out. I no longer feel small, I feel as big as the room, and everyone's eyes are on me. Like Alice in wonderland, I shrink and grow. My heart pounds like it's trying to drown out the sound, while I run towards the doors. But the laughter echoing down the halls chases after me and grabs me by the throat, sinking its talons into my flesh and dragging me back, whispering in my ear that it's me they're talking about. I cover my ears and scream silently as the conversations and unspoken words swirl around me, drowning me in a sea of deafening verdicts coming from a thousands judges, and the click of their heels land a blow like the slam of a gavel. The jury has decided, the label's been placed. I'm the girl with the scarlet letter, by their standards a disgrace. I'm proven guilty of every single flaw. Sentenced to years of banishment, confined to corners, destined to be rejected from every group that has ever existed. The house of God they call it? Funny, it feels more like a gallery. All the pretty faces and the perfect families up on display. Is that why mother scrubs my arms until the writing's gone? So the others don't see her daughter's different? Is that why father comes every Sunday? So they won't suspect what really goes on at home? They care so much what people think, wiping smudges off to make sure they look spotless, because heaven forbid, the others think we're any different. Yet when I fight my battles, I do it alone. Conform to the standards of not only my peers, but their parents and mine. As long as my painting looks neat and I don't color outside the lines, they'll leave me alone and I can figure out how to fend for myself. Have they forgotten that we too were once different, strangers in a new country, small families huddling together for some kind of familiarity? Now they've built their own social pyramids, and if the bottom is at floor level, I am underground. House of God they say. It doesn't look like that to me. Their teachings are flawed, their people corrupt, our culture's grown proud, and I've had enough. If I'm to grow closer to my Father, I must go find a better place to hear His word. I'll attend and I'll listen, but I'm just waiting for the day till I'm free. Free to go to a better place, where I'll find my real family.