It's so hard to be what our parents want.

I can't stay.
To recite these prayers
to wonder why
to smile and support
while a word tempts me
worries me
controls me
behind this locked door.

And they'll never even know.

I am their "last hope"
molded in empty promises
broken from the moment my feet met concrete.

Even now, they pretend
over and over—
just a girl, just a grade, just a drink, just a word.
They see the boy
the boy playing Christian
and they smile.

Can they be so blind?
He is the fruit of endless correction,
the consequence of imitation,
a complete absence of true desire—
a mere service for them above all.

But to stay
to let them open these doors and try to love a prodigal who can't change...

Impossible.

Dear God, may they never find me out.