spell my name

I grew up sitting in pews and kneeling at altars.

I remember looking up at the large hanging cross in the center of the room, same as the one that hung heavy around my neck, and feeling like it was pointed right at me.

A reminder, they would say.

Of what I’m still not sure, but I knew all too well the guilt it flooded me with.

As if it being pointed right at me acted as an open faucet.

I learned to forgive before I learned to question.

I knew of hell before I knew how to spell my own name.

I was taught to sit quietly with my hands folded over my too big white dress, and not ever doubt, all in the name of blind faith.

I still find my hands folded over too big jeans now, in a desperate attempt to keep them still.

I no longer sit in pews, but I do sit on beds of boys I momentarily convince myself I love.

And I no longer kneel at altars, but I do kneel before any high that makes me feel momentarily real.

I no longer wear a cross around my neck, but I still carry a choking weight in the hollow of my throat.

And I still feel that I am constantly burning alive from guilt,

A burnt offering I guess you can say.

I forgive and excuse cruelties like I was a first hand witness to their overly harsh moms and emotionally absent dads.

I give out blind faith like pleasantries and believe in every word that drips fire onto the pants of those who speak it.

And I know of hell all too well.

But at least now I know how to spell my name.