I held the Bible,
once blanketed in fragile red and green--
my parents with furrowed brows
as I sat and forced my nose into each page.
I was 7.

My legs strode down the street after the slumber party.
Smoothing my sweater and shaking,
I feared being shunned within sacred walls.
"Honey, you don't have to go with them."
I was 12.

Smiles came free with my new camaraderie.
Being filled with the gospel of hatred,
"Keep doing good, you're going to hell."
My chest tumbled through my abdomen.
I was 16.

I learned that my heart could skip beats
as he held me on that skinny hard mattress.
Little did I know I wouldn't be Godly enough,
at least my lips didn't taste of deceit, too.
I was 18.

Slight contempt flooded my veins
as he lied to protect me.
"She's not Catholic, Dad, that's all,"
and I could feel the eyes I couldn't see.
I was 19.

Peace overcame me as I looked out
at the opportunities that exist
to exchange dopamine to one and to all.
Faith is not above me, but around us.
I am 24.