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Heavenly Cry

Poem of Religious Deceit

By Allison JonesPublished 6 years ago 2 min read
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Fall down and come forth, place your body against the altar

and stain the wood with your tears, calling out for religion

and the god you need; you read about him in the book

that you found on the sidewalk, the preacher

said that this is something you cannot do by yourself, together

is the only way, for apart we are nothing, nothing but alone.

Apart we are nothing, together we are something, alone

you touch yourself, screaming a name you don’t know from the altar

that your tears and cum stained; you see your preacher

behind your clouded eyes and you realize that being together

is the only way to fully experience the cry of god through religion

and the comfort of scripture and salvation through the sidewalk book.

The sidewalk offered the knowledge to you, the small black book

you found on that night, fleeing from him and his sexual violence, alone

you cried on curb, seeing stars and cigarette smoke fly around you—together

with your bleeding breasts and maimed genitalia, you cursed the religion

that was supposed to keep you safe and sound from him—you remembered the altar

you cried on and cursed god’s damn name under your breath—he watched you, the preacher.

He watched you writhe and ooze all over the floor, the preacher

smiled and laughed, enjoying what he saw and touching himself with the book

that was supposed to be holy and sacred—he spat all over what you thought religion

was. He never told you he loved you but he never said he hated you until the altar

told him too—it birthed his hate and stroked his malice—alone

you are nothing, a shadow of your former self. You are everything together.

Apart from your mother, your father, your god. Broken and waiting together,

you see him—You see him behind your eyelids and in your breath, the preacher

who once told you that everything was fine and that everything would keep you safe, the altar

whispered in your bloodied ear comforting words and stories that kept you alive, but alone.

You remembered the sidewalk, the night, the cold, the man who showed you the book

that held it. Him. The man above the sky. He’s supposed to keep you—the religion.

The words on the dead-tree pages call to you, whispering religion

and curses that you’ve never heard before. You hate being with him—together

and apart at the same time. You see him smile and hate yourself for loving being alone.

Your hands grace the cover and feel the stains on the first pages of the damned book

and you cough and choke when you realize that he did this to you. The preacher

who sat upon that damned cum-stain and watched you writhe on the altar.

The stupid fucking religion that you thought would keep you safe and together

was nothing more than a preacher hiding behind fake words and a fake book

just so you could be thrown on an altar and left to satisfy his needs. Alone.

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About the Creator

Allison Jones

My name is Mary Allison Jones and I'm currently a Junior Writing major at West Virginia Wesleyan College in Buckhannon, WV. My track is poetry, and I'm a poet by trade. I also dabble in short fiction. I live with my fiance and our two cats.

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