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.
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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