Hands knit together for prayer,

my mother slurs bible verses in my ear

to coldly remind me that I was going to

hell.

We collect communion from the pastor,

a bitter taste that lingers on my tongue and in my head,

as I swallow the bread and listen to the organs echo through my ears and

pound against my skull,

mosaic jesus framed in the window staring at me, as I did not belong,

and nor did she.

Her glassy eyes burn holes into my retinas,

wrapping a rosary around my neck like

a tight noose constricting my breathing.

Anathemas cascade from her mouth

like a cataract of hypocrisy,

for she opens the bottle just as

often as she opens her holy bible.


The familiar scent of vodka escapes her lips

as she violently prays for me to become a better daughter.

She kneels against her stained bed, head resting

in her calloused hands, whispering to

a higher power I couldn’t believe in.

For, if these were his followers,

if this was under his omniscient control,

he must’ve pointed his finger at me,

cloud of despair washing over my head the way

the alcohol drowns her,

and commanded,
there will not be light for you.


Tear stained cheeks every sunday morning,

mass of unforgiveness,

I loathe the crucifix that hangs before me,

the blood that drips from his lifeless finger tips, his head hung low, for he condemned me to this hell that I stay in, pondering what I have done in my past life to burn each and every time this church bell screams, walking step by step, the ringing growing louder in my ears. I dip my unfaithful fingers into the flaming holy water, swiping it across my forehead, a mark that I was defeated, succumbing to the life I did not believe in, in a futile hope that perhaps my mother will forgive me for the wrong that I have never done.

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