He thinks I’m another
drunk or junkie.
He tries to tell me to
seek sobriety, to trust in a higher power.
I plead for
exorcism.
I plead for something I
never believed, and at that moment, I still don’t believe.
Desperation calls for
desperate measures.
He blesses me, the holy
water touching my skin.
No reaction. No bubbling.
No hissing.
He sends me on my way,
back into the inky night, into the fear and shadows.
The saints, those glassy
eyed statues, are laughing at me as I leave.
“Straight to hell!”
“Bitches burn!”
“Satan’s whore!”
The statues mock me,
their voices ringing in my ears, in my mind.
I stumble down the stone
steps, away from the House of God.
His House does not
welcome me.
His House cannot save me.
His House…
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