The Irony of My Savior
by Olivia

(NOTE: TOPIC BASED OFF RELIGION)

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They told me
there was a man
who once helped those who were hurt,
who “loved me” more
than anyone on the globe,
who changed life for the “better.”
But those nights spent in bed,
thinking about those nights spent
with others of the faith telling me,
“He heard your cries.”
“He listens to your prayers…”
“…He cleans your mind…”
“…Holds your hands…”
“…And loves you more than the world!”
My lifeline, that was supposed to
“Keep me alive,”
WENT DEAD.
My bruised and battered body
on a hard-tile floor,
blood covering me like how
“Jesus died for us on the cross.”
Going home all covered,
saying everything “was fine,”
going to church over the next month,
showing my pain
in a room full of promises and bandages
that fixed a LITTLE,
but through it all,
He never came.
If I was “chosen,”
if this was my “path,”
my “road,” my “story,”
that I had suffered for a reason,
that everything was on a blueprinted paper
like a plan for my life,
then where was HE to make corrections
when HE SAW HE took it too far
and didn’t do something right?
They all decorate the church with the “holy face”
and Bible verses,
pray that things will turn right,
because it’s easier than admitting
that what He SUPPOSEDLY DID wasn’t right.
They don’t know how to help me.
The doctors can’t either.
I’M NOT doing this for attention.
I used to, because that’s how I got noticed when I was hurt.
YES, I might have taken it too far,
but THAT day will never end.
IT ISN’T A DREAM.
PEOPLE CAN BE THAT CRUEL.
DON’T YOU DARE CALL ME “INSANE.”
They watch me bleed out
while handing empty and broken promises and prayers.
When ALL I NEEDED was someone to notice
when I had DIED that day on that hard tile floor.
I never saw Him, not then, not now.
That’s why I don’t believe HE exists.
I prayed so hard,
in my darkest times,
but He ceased to exist.
I built my own life up
from what was left of my battered, ****** body,
crimson-red blood.
The metallic taste and smell I’ll NEVER forget,
it’s still with me.
But I’ve found my home, found my place.
The irony of my “savior”
was the fact He came for His supposed “people” and “world,”
but He didn’t come for me.
I can cradle my hurt,
but He will never help.
He lost His chance,
and now I’m finding MY OWN
path,
MY OWN
LIFE,
MY OWN
story.
I’M CLAIMING THIS.
IT’S MY LIFE.