The only time I believed in you,

was when I thought I was supposed to.

When you were presented as a fact.

The same way I believed in Santa Clause and The Tooth Fairy.

And believing in you hurt me.

Your home was my prison,

 drowned me in guilt. 

I suffocated every sunday,

no matter how hard I tried to inhale.

"Let us bring forth to mind our sins"

I’m horrible. 

How could I feel this bad at five years old?

I’m horrible.

The tears and escaped air hurt my mom,

she didn’t understand.

And when I trembled at the thought 

of being trapped in your home

that mere hour,

Cringing,

at the memories of prior hours 

in my prison

spent grieving the self worth

that you slaughtered,

she shook with rage

and disappointment.

Reminding me what you had already taught me:

that I was bad.

When I stopped believing in you,

it was worse.

Because I knew I was supposed to

and oh how much I cared,

what everyone else thought.

Oh how much I wanted to be loved,

the way I loved everyone I had ever met

no matter what

the way they said you did.

Though, actions speak louder than words,

and personally,

I don’t have any blood on my hands,

let alone that of billions of people.

Sunday visits to your home hardened me,

the way prisons often do to their criminals.

Guilty

I couldn’t make my mom happy,

Guilty

I couldn’t be like everyone else,

I couldn’t bear to sit with feeling like

such a bad human being,

I couldn’t ignore the scientific knowledge I acquired,

I couldn’t ignore all the people I’d fallen in love with,

most whom you claimed would burn

just because of their preferences

be it religious, sexual, 

just because they weren’t like you.

Angry

for allowing that book,

that mere fairytale,

to do this to me.

Angry

at society,

for using that book,

that mere fairytale,

as an excuse for judgement and hate; but only select quotes of course.

This resentment,

is engrained.

I’d prefer to spend everyday as a “no judgement” day,

then spending everyday judging people who won’t make it to your “Judgement day”

Why would I want to be with you anyway?

You broke down anything I ever liked about myself,

you overshadowed anything my mother liked about me,

all because I wasn’t what you wanted.

What she wanted.

What anyone wanted.

Why would I want to be with you anyway?

You showed me what love isn’t.