Any feedback on this??? I'm 15 and just want to get some thoughts on my writing!!
HIHI this is just something i wrote down in the spur of the moment after i watched an edit of a home far away and then watched leviticus right after anddd i dont really write that much so if you have any feedback pleaseee feel free to critique!!!
Lord, free my Saviour
Is it wrong to feel guilty for something so seemingly normalised yet still viewed as a sin?
Just a view from afar, a reach out, yet you’re still just another fantasy kept locked away behind my exit door. Every step I take towards you is a cry of desperation, of shame, evidence that I have paved this route of fate for myself. Though I have trapped myself in this turmoil of thoughts and feelings, I still can’t face the truth of this reality. Perhaps in an alternate universe I could confess my love for you freely instead of keeping it to view only for the pages of my english book. Where I wish you would come and tell me you like my short poems or my cursive handwriting. Not knowing they were about you. Your curly hair now imprinted on the page, carrying the words of my love off from your shoulder and into your head. People hold love in their hearts, in the palm of their hands, but, if love wasn’t a burden, why is it haunting me in every aspect of my life?
Were you the love in my heart, or merely the love I wish I had?
On that early Sunday morning, the normally warm sunshine illuminating through the stained glass windows was nowhere to be found. Until you entered. It was as if the world was in your favour, with the light now glowing from the crucifix that lay right by your heart. No longer through the image of Christ was the path aglow, for you were my saviour.
A single moment in time in which I would come to realise, marked the first swell of “love” I had truly felt, before knowing what “love” really meant. Through you, I built the meaning of love. Love was the way you made handshakes with your friends, distinct to each. Love was the way your laughter echoed through the narrow hallways of my mind, lingering as an image. Love was the way you became my God, despite the endless lessons on how a love like this was disgusting. But this image would soon start to lose pieces along with my changing meaning of love.
The way your lips brushed my ear as if you were whispering the words of our future into my soul. The way your eyes say more than your voice ever will, refusing to meet mine for more than a moment. Am I left to just forget the way my fathers face is plastered onto yours, yet my heart feels so heavy as my english book slowly turns into the bible. Seeing Jesus on the very cross hung around your neck, could it be that this was the very fate set for the both of us.
For I thought God to be the solution to my sorrow, a symbol of hope watching over. Instead I was met with the dimming light of the crucifix. Boring a hole into the soul of the identity I once claimed to be proud of. The God who never made time to answer my endless prayers punished me for speaking three simple words.
“I love you.”
Where I stand, is the choice between heaven or hell. Where the poor are happy and the rich are unsatisfied, I lean on the barrier against faces of people I’ve known and the face of the person I’ve loved. But who returns this love?
As I walk through the school gates, I imagine my place in hell waiting for me to cross into the arms of its brainwashed father. As an attempt to suck this toxicity out of my bloodstream. Making my way across the school yard, the eyes in the crowd speak words of repulsion, loathing, disbelief. Maybe it was the Devil himself already reaching out to me, or perhaps Christ was right, that I was not made for this world, this life. Everyday I face the battle of separating what I desire away from what society has programmed me to believe I want. Inevitably, this craving to hold you, for you to just look at me, is slowly getting replaced by the thought of what love would be like if you had never entered through the bridge distinguishing my once structured views of heaven and hell. If I had just learnt how to love a woman.
If only you were a woman.
Is it that in the midst of trying to cure myself, I had not realised that the arm I once held in mine would one day hold the weight of a sin you now believed to be punishable by death.
Do you look at me with eyes of distaste, blending in with the crowd trying to escape, though I still see you glowing, your crucifix now tucked under your shirt. Do you look at me with eyes of pity, as you stand there while I taste the blood in my mouth. Your blackened soul now reflected onto the bruise on my chest. I wish to shoot a bullet through the heart of Jesus, but is it Jesus that I hurt, or you?
Your fist or my father’s, father of the sky or father of my body, it’s getting hard to distinguish. Perhaps these figures are intertwined, all I have ever known. A type of hatred shared throughout in which I wish I could feel, instead of being met halfway with this condescending dread. A pair of eyes turn into two and then three, where I can no longer tell which kick is coming, which glass is thrown, or which hand is pushing me down.
Maybe it was the slight glint of joy in your eyes, in my fathers, who raised me from birth to believe this is what it should be. Maybe that was what made you stay my lord, my saviour. I thought this disdain was everlasting, until you showed me your way of loving. Might it be that this love was unlike the one I had imagined, although I knew I had been watched over like this all my life.
And as you walk past me in that school hallway, it’s as if I had never loved you.
“Go rot in hell,” as my father would say.
Except I don’t know which one.