I was not born into a broken family.
My father did not drink excessively
and my mother had kind words to say.
I did not learn to yell from hearing them yell,
and I never saw him lay a finger on her.

Instead,
I sat in trees turned church pews
with a passive being just out of reach.
Desire to be not me,
fiending a response
from a man mother and father spoke so highly of.

Instead,
I sat in blue bathroom stalls
with stained tiles and permanent explicits for company.
Passing lunch period for it was something to pass,
eating because although you stole my tongue and taste-
you left my stomach to waste.

Instead,
I sat beneath holy hands reaching-
that painting on sunflower walls haunting.
Each thought,
sin,
mistake
would be admitted to guilty air.