May 2013
“Where is your mom?”
someone always asks.
With God.
I sent her there when I was nine.
Upon a cross.
Lathered in burning tar.
A merciless gunshot to the head.
I witnessed death in all its forms.
For to be saved, there is
only one way.
“If that was my fate,
what would you say?”
someone always asks.
With God.
I sent her there when I was nine.
Upon a cross.
Lathered in burning tar.
A merciless gunshot to the head.
I witnessed death in all its forms.
For to be saved, there is
only one way.
“If that was my fate,
what would you say?”
Growing up in an intensely Christian home, I was very familiar with stories of Christian martyrs. This writing stems from the severence I felt in my relationship with my mom when I was a girl after my mom asked me if I would admit that I worshipped God even if the consequence was to be her death.
