Still chasing the cedar waters of the pines with ghost, holding hands with memories better left in the woods. Where my soul was once clean & untouched by the crumbling churches and stained glass choices, running from the life of a preachers voice. Sleeping on altars through services, wearing shame as a dress made of the dirtiest linen, lips blood soaked in mercy, never tasted.
Left with handprints on white skin from altar boys who couldn’t resist kissing behind wooden pews, their vile fingers tracing the hem of my skirt, staining my flesh in sin. Staring into the eyes of the devil & daring his intentions because that’s what preachers daughters do. Pressed against the fountain where souls were once washed clean in baptism, now tarnished by dirty hands and missing skirts. Washing my mouth out with the unclean water, promising never to do it again.
We all rebel from the day we are born, cursing our life and assuming we deserve to touch sky with delicate fingertips, yet I have never known nothing more intimate than lying to myself & drenching my salvation in shame, while the good Lord watched. Father always said, I was kissed by the devil, little did he know I was hell bent & marked by the flames. I still taste his bone & ash every time I drink from God’s fountain with empty eyes.
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