If he knew he'd 'pray the gay away,' but first, let's discuss this thing.

See, 'sin' is completely relative, it depends on who you ask.

It might be in pills, or spite, or hidden deep in a flask.

Gracious, kind-hearted, good God, if you didn't want some sin -

You should never have created the world and the people therein.

I laugh when the pastor speaks of treachery, and vows we broke to Him.

Because.. it is He who made us. Nothing down to whim.

No, everything was on purpose, apparently, they say.

I suppose thats just the thing.. that I'll get to know him, though.

He asked me silly questions - is it true you wish to die?

Do you still laugh with your friends? Do you have a reason why?

As if he could determine 'me' just by the way I lie.

I wouldn't hurt a single person- nor curse a single fly.

I suppose that's another lie, though, as my wrists will tell you so.

And my leg, and up both arms, there's no where the scars can't go.

I wanted so badly to tell him- have you seen it? Have you read the news?

'Everyone's trying to pass!' (They encour it from the pews)

'Our God's have long since left us! They've seen we harbor flaw!'

And yet I mutter over the phone, while the man goes silent with awe.

'I will not call the people, I will not tell the masses.'

'It's simply not their business! Who are you to raise your glasses?'

I do not wish to know him, I'm wasting all his time.

She is round, yes, but that also means she harbors no sharp edges.

She takes up space, but she also fills it in an unbelievably kind light.

She wakes up, and walks around, and works - arguably incredibly well.

If my body were something else, I feel she would be a doll. Not your plastic, botox, fake-smile-kind.

No, she's porcelain. In the best ways. Young, still. Neglected but still there to find comfort in.

And the memory of the artist who made me is getting kind of spotty.

I kind of like the stars, but I don't see them much anymore.

And I really miss the scars, counting one, two three four.

Since I got older, I guess I can't do that now.

I loved my Mom.

And she wasn't violent, or cruel when she drank. But she was so so so sad. It hurt to watch. So selfishly, I wanted her to stop.

Now I have the sadness she sought to pacify. I don't drink, but I drown nonetheless.

Brush my hair, I can't stand not running my hand though it, or maybe I'll make a habit of playing with yours instead

Be aware that I will walk at your heels, and will likely step on them often

Stay near me at night, I get lonely when it's quiet

Notice my acts of kindness, repaying them is optional

Garbed in fresh lavender, arms that are open.

Her smile is not of 'beauty' standards but slightly crooked to the left.

When she lifts me, she laughs. As if I harbor no heft.

She tells me her name and asks me for mine,

This is, after all, our meeting of the first time.

I struggle to speak, offerring a squeak.

Death lifts her head to the sky and cries out, 'you are not weak-'

'Spread your voice farther, so that all may hear.

This is the very last time that you will use it, my dear.'

So I told her all my secrets, as a Mother she acted.

Afterwards, she showed me the pit, very matter of fact.

I walked in calmly, as Death instructed me to do.

'I have enjoyed speaking, darling. And I hope that you did too.'

'But it is time for you to sleep now, do not be afraid.'

I see you in my Brother. The way he bears the cross.

I see your blood across the road, and wonder who misses you.

As I would miss my Brother's laugh, and I hope he'd miss mine too.

Roadkill rabbit, if you could walk.. where would you go? To whom would you mutter?

I am the footsteps upstairs - when you swear you are alone.

I am what's unsettling. I am what's uncouth.

I am all this and more, and have been since my youth.

I am not the car that keeps driving. I am not the one on the line.

I am not the creeping intruder, or the way he sneaks up behind.

I will always be the scary, the bizarre and the unknown.

And I think I react poorly to my Father because I've seen him show love. Tenderness. Just never to me.

These people who, despite having three other ongoing failed projects, decided to take up another assignment..

These people who don't even care for one another, yet believed they could care for each other's offspring.. I can only offer to them the darkest space in my mind. The one I dont go to often.

It is the thing that is profusely scribbled into the corners of my mind.. insufferably so. And I am the overwhelming feeling that renders people uncomfortable in their everyday lives.

Now I just kind of... float.

Like a planet we forgot the name of, or a shape thats shape is a little off.

Like a tidal wave when no one's there, like the voice no one hears because nobody cares.

Like your mother before the aisle, like the toys sat in a pile..

I am a childs option that was never chosen. An equation that didnt equate to me.