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Rated: ASR · Poetry · Dark · #2289050
an ode to religious trauma
AN: A new take on formatting my poetry. Let me know what you think.


this isn't normal, this isn't normal.

Cold skin and sweaty palms

Wordless whispers, cupped hands

Feather-light touches as I sing the psalms

Sitting tight, heeding demands

You're a witness, viewing outside of your own bod

There's no beauty, no grace

You'd do good to sit there in awe.

Don't let them, cover your face.

Oh, how the sweet wine pours,

it's sour, it's old

Oh, how the crisp bread scores,

it's dry, it's cold

She asked for your mercy, my lord.

As gentle eyelashes flutter against murderous tides

One's too young, not able to decide

Pray your throat raw, besides,

We must help you become once again clear-eyed.

Where is thy lord, as he lay bleeding and bruised?

Where will He be, shall you come back to nothing more?

Will you still pray, despite being abused?

Just breathe now darling, He’ll get you off the floor.

They know nothing of your pain, dear.
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