“On the sabbath we skipped church and you sat on the couch taking swills of holy water from a vodka bottle. You said God didn’t care for the container and I shouldn’t either.
It took three Sundays but I found faith in your sweaty hands that would clasp me like a prayer between palms kneeled before the alter after a bottle of communion and a promise confession would clear my name. Afterwards you swore the wine shades staining my skin were the Devil’s struggle from you gracing my skin with the hands of God. And I believed you.
After four months His name no longer burned you in blasphemy and sacrilege would slip my lips after an inhale of burnt bible paper and a swallow of sin sticky on my cheek. I repented to the toilet bowl while you chainsmoked luckies out the bathroom window and didn’t question your lack of prayer over dry toast and oatmeal.
One year in and the rip in my best church dress is nothing compared to the Devil’s wrath manifesting in your rage and lingering in lamb’s blood stains on my Wednesday stockings. I am crucified.
In two years I am able to walk into a church and taste blood as wine on my tongue rather than my own as condemnation. They say forgiveness is close to godliness so I bow my head to forgive the sins that dragged me past each level of my own personal hell. I ask to forgive even the wolf in sheep’s clothing that ripped each commandment from my rib and promised me atonement for each mortal sin. But for playing the Devil’s advocate, and each moment as the wolf’s fool, and every equivocate I let slip my judgement,”
— please god help me to forgive myself.