I feel like I’m gonna throw up
Rows of faded green pews
lining the ugly matching carpet
make me wonder
how many prodigals skinned their knees on their journey
to the throne room of the Almighty,
only to walk away with a rug burn and
a silly impression on their forehead
from bowing too long.
My quiet rebellion serves
as a reminder of louder tantrums and salt-burnt wounds.
Blunt words cause deeper hurts,
they cut with much force than
the clean slit of a sharp instrument.
The world spins on
and with it,
the heaviness of unborn burdens,
bruising with each blow to the abdomen
and bleeding with each trip, stumble, fall.
Ignorance and neglect serve to add an unkempt appearance,
and failure to nurture it makes me unwell.
Dismissal is not an option, I
wake up, carrying.
Wake up, sick.
Can you believe all those months, for this?
I feel like I’m gonna throw up.