Father

I grew accustomed to yelling when I was young
years of hunching over in a ball
in the corner of my room
meant that my back ached a lot,
but it was necessary to avoid
the screams of mother as she
pleaded with you to love her.

I knew what it felt like to be beaten
the sensation of blood running down my back
became lodged in flesh memory.
Crimson beads blossoming in flesh trenches
are so dangerous and eerie, yet an imperative aspect
of being your daughter.

I see red when the nurse comes to my room,
when they ask me to talk about my childhood
and tell them about my Father,
the man who loved the church and hated his family.
I no longer talk about God.
The juxtaposition between Heavenly Father and Earthly one
was a paradox too bizarre to comprehend.
So I stare into nothingness
with memories of epic hypocrisy
and the image of my Father,
the Pastor.

(I’ve just come back from ARME Bible Camp and one of the sermons I listened to was about Christian hypocrisy and the damage it does to people. I’m going to write a blog post about it soon.)

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