by Julianna Blacey

photo by Nathan Walstad

Quietly I slip in,

and the doors close behind.

I walk down the familiar doors and past the pews,

where my soul had once aligned.

The voices of my family greet me,

with praises on their lips.

The sound I hear is one of joy,

and the words heavy with forgiveness.

I am not at home here,

One look and you can tell.

My lying eyes and my bloodstained hands are raised,

But I am just a blackened cave; an empty well.

People say I sound like an angel,

my voice is straight from heaven.

But if you were to open my mouth,

you’d be greeted with dust and the traces of a million sins.

I know I am an intruder.

Unworthy to even say your name.

But I can’t seem to shed the crumbling mask,

That hides my hurt and pain.

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