Glass Houses Love Stones

On the evenings my father would drink,
Mixing holy water in with his vodka.

On Sundays he would show up to church drunk,
But wouldn’t take the blood of Christ,
Telling the priest he was a recovering alcoholic.

The rain tasted salty and I knew that his god was weeping.
I slipped on the pavement, and he laughed at me.
My heart is only protected by a cage of ribs,
Insulted with lungs that barely work through the tar my mother gave me.

She would just sit in her armchair,
Watching infomercials, eating chocolates, and chain smoking.

I don’t even feel like a woman anymore.

My vagina has been trying to tell me to stop,
Stop looking for coffee in the road,
And salvation in something else.

You don’t even know the shit you’re in, kid.