I looked above conflict and
peace befell upon me. I walked over hate and love absorbed me. I stood against
power and humbleness became me. I crossed the path of death and life
overwhelmed me. I glimpsed beneath deception and truth lifted me. I threw away
a grudge and forgiveness came to me. I battled depression and happiness
showered me. I let go of anger and laughter followed me. I stared at bitterness
and warmth enveloped me. I challenged defeat and victory led me.
It’s forgettable- the number of times I was called a “fucking faggot” as a kid. As a former child of god, I wasn’t expected to know what those words meant. I was taught that repentance was vital to achieving everlasting life. My momma made me go to church every Sunday. I said my prayers as I was told. But I eventually learned that Catholicism was never my sanctuary. Christianity was never my safe-haven. God never stopped the cheap shots. He never once prevented the harassment or pure embarrassment that I felt from the words of my “kin in Christ.” Now, picture me- a helpless faggot, blinded by the incandescent lights of an old catholic church. I was home from college spending Spring Break in my former hellscape. So, naturally, my momma yet again made me go to church. This time, on a Wednesday. It was Ash Wednesday. When I was among the folks from home, I felt out of place. So much that I’d imagine camouflaging myself. Like saber-tooth in hiding. But the difference? I had a far mo...
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