CW: direct mentions of r*pe and abuse
-----

There is a church deep in the South.
A church surrounded by tall grasses,
and rough sedges.

Unforgiving brambles tear at the gown
of any devotress who dares approach.
A derelict institution, unkempt and mangled.

There is an altar deep within the church.
Innumerable candles burn
atop a mountain of ancient wax.
One lit for each poor soul ripped from her body.

A lone heretic cares for them all.
Lighting the extinguished wicks.
A cruel idol towers above her.

On her knees, she mourns those who came before.
She prays she can treat them well,
and safely usher in the next.

She is a vessel for them
to speak and suffer through.
She feels them all.

Wounds bore deep into her,
and remind her what she comes from.
What happens to this body is secondary.
She will exist after it, as she has before.

I vomit onto the hardwood floor.
My insides spread thin and seep into the foundation.
My eyes smolder from the hatred.

I imagine the Neglected Daughter.
Does the idol see her in me,
when She is in me?

The Daughter is deemed worthy of protection.
She is locked in a back room.
For now, shielded from her Mother’s sins.
All others deserve damnation.

The heretic twitches and spasms on the floor,
in a burning puddle of her own spite.

As the idol orders a strangulating deluge
of wretched and groping hands
for the heretic's skin and holes;

She wonders:
Does the Daughter know her Mother is a rapist?

© All Rights Reserved