Dear congregation,
You did this to me. You and your gossip, your rumors, your watching eyes. You're the 1984; George Orwell preached you to fear the world but you preached me to fear everything and everyone.
Dear congregation,
Thank you for messing up my head. My first anxiety attack was probably over something I did wrong and probably didn't matter considering I don't remember what I did but I have the way it felt seared into my memory. Like the scream of locomotive breaks, the taste of old jewelry in my mouth clanking against my teeth.
Dear congregation,
I'm drowning on oxygen. I'm nervous every time I walk through that glass door to see your perfectly aligned morals all clashing up with mine. I'm screwed- no one will love me if I'm this twisted up. Sons of the world, sons of the lady sitting behind me, sons- they all want one thing.
I can't give it to them.
Dear congregation,
I'm tired. I wear traitorous socks inside my child-sized shoes. I go home, I have a drink, I cry into my desk at night while listening to The 1975.
I miss what you stole from me.
I miss what the world stole from me.
I wish I could free fall into either one and find someone to love me. My hands are etched in pen ink, letters from a friend. I took pictures of my sins.
The flash was on. Words glow.
Dear congregation,
They whisper lies and accusations. I fear for the last remnants of my innocent youth. Innocence? The beauty of knowing evil yet choosing to smile in the arms of love. Not some snow white fairytale-- no, my innocence was blood-red and covered in dirt and alive.
My innocence died to you. My innocence died to an inch of cleavage, thirteen-year-old bra straps, knee high skirts, and then I chopped off my hair. My innocence died to the fucked up ideology that men can't help themselves. My innocence died to a drugged up boy with green eyes and a southern drawl, his body weak and lifeless like a dead cat pulled from a washing machine. You hit the start button.
Dear congregation,
I attend you simply to fulfill the gnawing duty that my moral compass-- no, my intense, ingrained, overwhelming, anxiety-fueled guilt-- pervades me.
You did this to me. You and your gossip, your rumors, your watching eyes. You're the 1984; George Orwell preached you to fear the world but you preached me to fear everything and everyone.
Dear congregation,
Thank you for messing up my head. My first anxiety attack was probably over something I did wrong and probably didn't matter considering I don't remember what I did but I have the way it felt seared into my memory. Like the scream of locomotive breaks, the taste of old jewelry in my mouth clanking against my teeth.
Dear congregation,
I'm drowning on oxygen. I'm nervous every time I walk through that glass door to see your perfectly aligned morals all clashing up with mine. I'm screwed- no one will love me if I'm this twisted up. Sons of the world, sons of the lady sitting behind me, sons- they all want one thing.
I can't give it to them.
Dear congregation,
I'm tired. I wear traitorous socks inside my child-sized shoes. I go home, I have a drink, I cry into my desk at night while listening to The 1975.
I miss what you stole from me.
I miss what the world stole from me.
I wish I could free fall into either one and find someone to love me. My hands are etched in pen ink, letters from a friend. I took pictures of my sins.
The flash was on. Words glow.
Dear congregation,
They whisper lies and accusations. I fear for the last remnants of my innocent youth. Innocence? The beauty of knowing evil yet choosing to smile in the arms of love. Not some snow white fairytale-- no, my innocence was blood-red and covered in dirt and alive.
My innocence died to you. My innocence died to an inch of cleavage, thirteen-year-old bra straps, knee high skirts, and then I chopped off my hair. My innocence died to the fucked up ideology that men can't help themselves. My innocence died to a drugged up boy with green eyes and a southern drawl, his body weak and lifeless like a dead cat pulled from a washing machine. You hit the start button.
Dear congregation,
I attend you simply to fulfill the gnawing duty that my moral compass-- no, my intense, ingrained, overwhelming, anxiety-fueled guilt-- pervades me.
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