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.
Photo by Timothy Onubeji on Unsplash