Blue brick stone eyes,
like four leaves, I am in luck.
Liquid doesn’t drip from rock.
Not all skin is the same.
Some grow into cat-o-nine tail,
but you…
you douse poison like a God.
I am witness,
without religion,
without faith,
without hope,
out of the blue,
brick stone eyes
came to me
an old idea –
a different skin
growing on me.
To speak up on Sunday
when religion strikes like
the back of a hand
would be a sin. To question
a written truth bound
by message and baggaged with
fear
would be unthinkable.
But I do! But I do!
I let those words of hymn drain
slow down my throat,
digesting each He and Him,
and I am not the same size
as my companions in these walls.
I am unworthy.
I am faithless in my tongue
because I cannot taste it.
But I do! But I do!
I am full of confession, I swallow them
like bone slivers after the fasting.
My prayer is splintered by
knees on the floor.
My Dear God, humble me more!
maggiemaeijustsaythis 