Somewhere in Israel
I sat there each week, holding life in the back of my mind, holding hope in the palm of my hand, and feeling accused by your daughters, who were perfect. I scribbled notes in Revelations, my mind somewhere in Israel, fearing muslims and fire, while your daughters sat blank-faced because they were perfect. I called my hands wreckless and pushed them aside. I called my books worthless and cried for unlikey salvation, as it rained somewhere in Israel. I almost died upon your altar, almost killed my only heart. We all drowned in our unworthiness, except your daughters. They were perfect. Shots rang out somewhere in Israel as we paid the church to eat our lives, and I swallowed my acid pride and wondered how your daughters can breathe.Tear it apart. Written March 9th, 2002 © on Mar 09 2002 10:10 AM PST, Katrina Armour 0 • 10
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"I sat there each week,..."