good christian boy
I was raised very christian.
when I was young, I was only in it
for the dixie cups of cheez-its
and the coloring books of bible scenes
and the candy prizes for reciting john 3:16.
I remember the sweltering days of vbs
when you and I played games
with the nice high schoolers
who said “isn’t it cool
that jesus died for you?”
I remember in middle school,
going to church with my parents
to hear your uncle preach about the sins
of seducing a man
before you stand
at the altar
I remember that night at church camp
when I cried guilty tears and admitted my doubts
and you prayed with me that God would
cast them out
I remember, since I was 7 years old,
my mom saying
“that’s the kind
of good christian boy
you need to marry.”
and I remember that morning in my first year of college
when my naked body in the mirror
repulsed me
and I scrubbed until bright blotches stained my skin
but no amount of holy water could cleanse me.
the bible says “if a man is caught raping
a young woman, he must marry the young woman
because he violated her.”
“that’s the kind
of good christian boy
you need to marry.”
the kind of good christian boy
who forces my legs apart like the red sea
whose plague is worse than Egypt’s ever seen
who takes the fruit despite my pleas
a good christian boy like you.
but good for you if your God
has forgiven your sins and you get a
free pass to heaven,
but I’m already in hell
but the demons that haunt me
aren’t red
with horns
and pitchforks they look like the good christian boy
whose bookshelves of bibles I stared at
to escape his hungry gaze
whose bed springs cried out in protest beneath me
when I could not
whose silver cross dangled from his neck
above my limp body
my layers of hell are not Dante’s
but the rounds of PTSD therapy spent
bringing up memories I buried behind a stone
praying they wouldn’t come back to life
Noah’s great flood’s got nothing
on the tears of my panic attacks
every day I build myself a boat; I
hammer a smile on my face
and duct tape the leaks
so no one can see I’m really drowning
God, you say you’re always with me,
so where the fuck were you?
feathers pricked my cheeks
through his pillow,
mocking the wings of guardian angels
who missed the memo
the Savior didn’t come,
but he sure did
God, where were you to
lead him not into temptation
and deliver me from his evil?
now, when I lay me down to sleep
I pray that I won’t see that creep
amen
what men
don’t understand is their
hands still feel like his against my skin;
when I dared to make love for the first time since,
my body mistook touch for trauma
mistook intimacy for emptiness
as in my empty ribs—
I’m not a human, just a hole
just the sum of my body parts
just a hoe for horny hypocrites,
for a good christian boy
playing God
so he can do whatever pleases him.
but please, leave this piece of me whole
so I can feel things without feeling
tears spring to my eyes and
that good christian boy between my thighs;
my body is not a temple, it is a minefield
but it doesn’t feel like mine
it was stolen by the good christian boy,
and I know you can cut off his hand
for something like that,
but I have a much better idea
I haven’t been back to church
and I haven’t seen him since,
but I swear on the bible,
if our paths cross again,
God help him.