any faith in God I had
it shattered when I was eleven
like the shards of glass glittering on the road
next to my puppy lying in his blood
like Grandma's tears as I held her hand
while she died so, so slowly
like the dew on the grass
that I stared at for an hour instead of going near Uncle's grave
like the ruthless eyes of the Husky
as it ripped into the torso of my one month old sheep
like every prayer that went unanswered
this God thing is a lie
I learned
it can't be trusted

any faith in people I had
it left when I was twelve
like my father
and the step father who screamed all the time
and the creepy old man who slept with my mother
the guy that tried to touch me with his greasy hands
the fool with a shovel and a gleam in his eye
standing in the doorway and swinging
crazy
people are crazy
I learned
they can't be trusted

my faith in air
that's what I have left
even if there is nothing else
I learned
I can breathe