This is who I die for, Lord
I’m sorry I say this in Thy Holy Name
But it is not You whom I pray to nor praise

I am down on my knees for a new God

He does not judge me
He does not lash me for my sins
For He is my sin

His touch feels like the sunshine on my face
And He tastes of milk and honey
-
His voice is like a song of the sirens
And His scent is oh so alluring

And I cannot feel you, Lord!
How can I believe
When my real God is right here in front of me?
Before my eyes & before my touch

How could I not praise His Holy Name?
For it feels serene on my tongue
And Yours only when I’ve sinned
When I am on my knees
And begging for mercy

If I shall not lie with a male
As with a woman
Color me the abomination

I no longer worship those I fear
For it only comes with consequences

No God would bare His teeth
When His creations use their will as they please

We do not bite the hand that feeds
For the hand has been empty
And we are starving

His Name rings in my head
Like church bells on Sunday Morning
I want to pray to Him
-
To my never-faltering obsession

Send me to Hell
Because for all I care
My experience with Him
Felt like Heaven

When I was a child
I went to church every Sunday

Down the road
And across the creek
Around Magnolia Street
And past the neighbor’s Confederate flag

I wore a white dress with blue hydrangeas
And shiny black Mary Janes
Sometimes a pink bow

My mother would hush me
Any time I would complain of itchiness
I would scratch until my skin matched my pink bow

The girls at church wouldn’t play with me
Because my white dress with blue hydrangeas
Didn’t fit right

My father would chide me for not making friends
That he didn’t raise an anti-social freak
With a dress that didn’t fit right

We would go home after service
Past the neighbor’s Confederate flag
And around Magnolia Street
Across the creek
And down the road

I would find myself in my little pink room
Kicking off my Mary Janes
And my little pink bow
And tearing of that godforsaken
White dress with blue hydrangeas

Pajamas are much more comfortable anyway

Dinner is always a burden
We’d join hands in Grace
Uttering the words of the Lord
“Bless us, O Lord, and these Thy gifts…”

I’d play with my peas
My parents their wine
Not a word was spoken between us
And maybe it was better that way

Bedtime is the only time I can breathe
I’m back in my little pink room
At the edge of my little pink bed
On my knees and my hands in prayer

I would pray and pray
Beg and beg
For God to make things a little easier
To make me who I really am

And maybe instead of my Mary Janes
I’d be wearing Oxfords
Instead of looking like Eve
I’d be a little bit more like Adam

My throat was raw from crying and screaming
To a God who wasn’t there
A God who insisted that I wear
The white dress with blue hydrangeas

I’m a little bit older now
But I still find myself stuck
In the white dress with the blue hydrangeas
Shiny black Mary Janes
And a stupid pink bow

Down the road
And across the creek
Around Magnolia Street
And past the neighbor’s Confederate flag

I no longer complain of itchiness
There’s no point in it anymore

I sit on the bench in the church’s front yard
Observing the other girls from afar
Their dresses neat and ironed
I can only dream of mine being like theirs

I can get through another psalm or two
If I ignore the itchiness enough

My church clothes are back in a pile
Beside my pink little bed
In my little pink room

I stand in front of the mirror this time
As pure and disrobed as the day I was born

Everything is misshapen and melting
I can only stare back at the disoriented reflection
Before me

I live inside a body that isn’t mine
And it is disgusting

Before I know it, tears are falling like candle wax
Hot and sticky on my face
I try to wipe them away
But nothing can extinguish
The flame inside of me

I’m screaming and crying
Just like I did when I was little

But this time it was for me
Not for Him
Not for my parents
But for my own shattered image
And the soul within it

My nails claw at my flesh
Trying to rid this shell I call my body
But what is it of any use
When the thing that’s killing me
Is right there next to me?

It is no longer my flesh
It is the cage it is condemned to

Amidst the tears I can make out my hands
Tearing and ripping away streams of white and blue
And for a moment, in the eye of the tornado
There is peace

Sobbing becomes shaky, shallow breaths

I sit at the edge of my little pink bed
In my little pink room
In the shredded scraps
Of the white dress
With blue hydrangeas