There's feelings in my pockets, of ones lost under toys, trash, and wired earbuds.
When I watch the way a Father cares for his Daughter, I can't help but stare.
There's a childhood I asked God for, to no avail.
Because everyday when I get down on that dirty bus floor to pray, asking to free me from the chains of abuse that kept me locked down
–there was never a miracle written for me, not in ink, or even crayon.

Maybe I didn't pray hard enough for a 10 year old.
Maybe things would have been different if God came down just when I needed him to stop the hands that beat me and my family everyday.

There's rages at the tips of my fingers and lashes, hate at my water lines.
Dear god, behold myself against your holy soul.
To all the unjustified murders, and hate you let trample on in your name
–how could anyone believe in a man like you?


© Junemousonae