are these thoughts my own (poem)

are these thoughts my own

or have they been falsified by

a linguistic virus

 

can they read my mind?

has my autonomy been shanghaied by these parasitic illusionists?

they feed on my family’s freedom

 

each morning I step into the lion’s den

each evening I return to a spider’s web

at least each pneumonia that floods my lungs keeps me cozy and feverish in bed

 

your mask has now grown flesh

from a lifetime of wearing deceit -

you lace poison, pollution in our drinking water

 

a wolf in sheep’s clothing is too kind a picture

I see ravenous plagues, eyeballs pecked and my torso torn apart

you hang me by my ankles above a bloodthirsty mob 

my split ribcage drips blood into the communion 

they gulp my childhood’s potential,

spitting back hypocrisy

 

below me are smiling women, well-dressed men, children in blinders in rows

my brainwaves are overwritten

we worship like a blindfolded orchestra

I’m lowered to the ground and I hear them sing Amen

 

I’m patched up but spit on for my immodesty

I wrap my arms around my ribcage and hope my long hair covers my fleshless bones 

 

my blood refills each Sunday for this vicious mob and

the pastor smiles above me -

he is pale; a vampiric draught of emotion my blood can’t stain his piercing white hair but it stains the floor I walk on 

it sustains his growing appetite 

 

crowding begins, I say thank you as he shoves me underwater

hollow applause and wet church socks

is my future safe now, or can hell’s worms still get me? 

 

I’m home again, a Bible in every room -

who is King James and why can’t I memorize every passage like they want me to 

but Veggie Tales makes it easy, I like Larry he seems nice. not so much bob 

 

 

the earth has rotated about seven more times which means it’s time for them to feed again

the cattle are lined in rows, decorated in floor-length skirts and ties 

the women tenderized with black eyes under makeup, seasoned with silence

we sing and praise and worship this deity 

while we’re eviscerated 

 

gorging on the absence of comfort 

malnourished from the empty calories of being filled by a Holy Spirit 

and missing breakfast 

 

 

it’s all a famine of the soul 

they call it religion

 

 

 

Further commentary from the author… 

 I felt freed writing this piece with the graphic, visceral images it may provoke for the reader. For the first time, I felt like I could paint a brief glimpse into my childhood experience being raised in “an everyday cult” (thank you, Gerette, for the phrase!) without glossing over it with a sugarcoating. Countless adults failed me and my family, as they continue to fail so many others in the name of “Christianity.” I feel so free now that I can finally name this root of this cultic abuse. I am awake, so is my family. We are all healing in family therapy, and I am thriving with my best friend/husband. I am safe, I have autonomy, I am always fed, I’m happy, and I’m no longer afraid to depict the graphic abuse through this inner child’s eyes. 


 

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Review of Wade Mullen’s Something’s Not Right