Growing up, I was taught the story of two men
One built his house upon the rocks and one upon the sand
And I learned the difference between humility and pride
I was taught to differentiate the foolish from the wise
Because when God sent the rainfall and the waters began to rise,
The house on sand crumbled right in front of thoughtless eyes
And my father would tell me, "Darling, don't build your foundation in the weak, in something that might die"
But I've been constructing my home on gravel my entire life

If there is a God
Why did he let me build my house upon the sand?
Why did he lay down every brick and let the nails tear through my hands?
I am an urchin in the dirt leaving claw marks in the earth
And my cries fall from my mouth and cling to my tattered shirt
If there is a God
Then why would he call himself a Father to me?
Why would he want to break my heart and crush my dignity?
He prides himself on the ringing in my ears
and his mason jars of tears
Instead of being my faith, why would God want to be my greatest fear?
If heaven is where he is,
then hell is anywhere but here

If there is a God
And he's my Father
And he is so divine
Then why did I grow up so sick and sad and tired all the time?
Why would he instill doubts from Satan himself for everyone to see;
"You're inadequate
Inadequate
That's all you'll ever be"
My mistakes render me useless,
At least, that's what Father says of me

And if there is a God,
And he's my father
How could he walk away as if nothing ever happened, although I have seen it all before
Because what happens in this House of Heaven stays behind closed doors
He would enter his bedroom, and leave the door open just a crack
So when he would read his Bible and show us how a true Christian should act
I'd turn to my little brother and say "I wish one day we'd be holy like that".

The mortar in my walls are breaking and the water is rushing in
I wish so badly to repair it, but I've always been like this
The dirt I fell in twenty years ago is matted to my skin
The cuts on my soul since childhood are all I've ever been
I'm sorry Father, for I have sinned
And I have nothing good to show
And I don't mean to point the blame, Father, but sin is all I've ever known

If there is a God, would he let me stand before his throne?
Would he take me into his arms and treat me as his own?
Would he wash my ***** shirt and let me stand where the saints have stood?
Would he help me build a house upon the rocks
Like a father should?

I wonder if I can build it well enough to reach him
Because my current house can't as long as its this way
If there is a God
I wonder what he'd say
about me

I am the prodigal daughter you never learned about in stories

I could light my clothes on fire to rid them of the smell of your cologne
or I could singe my palms for every time you held my hand, but still made me feel alone
I could strike a match against my collar for every time you cursed my name
or burn my fingertips on worn down lighters and let them swallow me in flames
I could let the ashes douse my passions and let the fumes dance up towards heaven in the sky

And if God asked why you were crying,
you'd say the smoke got in your eyes

I hope my name burns you, just like you burned mine
I hope it hurts you
I hope you hurt

He said I was pretty when I got upset
He said it was cute when I cried
He thought I looked beautiful with mascara running down my eyes
He liked the black that stained my cheekbones, probably because it was all that I had left
When I finally sat up and tried to catch my breath
And the words that I screamed into the mattress swam across the bed
And the colors that ignited me were shriveled up and dead

He held my rainbow that seeped
From my skin to the sheets
And the shades of my dreams
Poured right through the seams
He caught the colors in the same palms that held me
The same hands that bruised my wrists
Into the fingers that seized my hair and the hands that grabbed my hips;

"You can't possibly drive home with the makeup stinging in your eyes
Darling, stay the night, you're just so pretty when you cry"

I watched my shades run down my arms, they stained the corners of my dress
But I would rather be his "pretty" than be someone else's mess

I've spent the past thirty minutes dismantling the jagged pieces
Biting their edge and screaming confessions at the bathroom door
I'd pick up all my colors but they've soaked into the floor
This is my last letter to him, I refuse to write anymore

I'll see if I still feel grey tomorrow morning

I've read your story a thousand times
I've blown through every chapter and I've savored every rhyme
And I have picked apart the meanings and I've looked for all the signs
But I only found myself in how your pen bled through the lines
I found myself in the accidental ink spots that seeped into the next page
And I was in the binding stained with coffee that smelled of lavender and sage
I found myself in the worn down corners of the paper from hands that couldn't help but touch
Because while the language is your master, I was just your crutch
I found myself in the scratched up vinyls you spin on repeat, I'm in the tense air their sound cuts through
They're old and skip around a bit, but still they'll play for you
It's in how your bedroom walls hold your truths and your pillow holds your lies
Your sheets hold my perfume while your ceiling holds our eyes
The nightstand holds my teacup, the Darjeeling you couldn't stand to touch
Because while it burned my hands to hold it, you said it was never hot enough
For you
You must have caressed my frame with your gaze a hundred times and with your hands a thousand more
I bet you could read this letter as often as you tried to kiss me
And still not know who I was writing for
You could find it on your bed, marked with my lipstick and bordered with lace
But you would still drop it to the floor and mutter, "That's nice but what a pretty face
You have"
I guess I can forgive you, but you'll need to forgive me too
For being someone who would rather be remembered for how she loved
Than for the love she made to you

While our stories will be written differently, our graves are all the same
Inside
But writers never die, my dear, so I swear I'll keep your name
Alive

I know you said I'm not the best with words, but I'll keep writing just in case
You come across my story and realize that you deserve a place
To stay
And I'm sorry every cup of tea I've ever made was cold and had no taste
But I would remake it every morning if it meant I would wake up to your face
Please stay

You're always welcome in my book