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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