Sainthood, Self-proclaimed: A Poem

The guilt you instilled in me still

Finds ways to pester me. Is this the

Language that you taught me? That

Every single thing that was wrong in

Your life was my fault? That I would never

Be worth all the sacrifices you made?


You hammered yourself onto that cross,

Rammed the arrows through your skin,

Across your bones, so that you could cash in

The rewards of endless empathy and admiration.

You martyred yourself and lied that everything

You did had always been for me. Your twisted

Self-centeredness had no limits.


You inflicted wounds without a cure.

I wonder whether I can change the

Dynamic that you left behind, within me.

Transforming your curses into goodwill.


What would a coroner say about your wounds?

Inner self-flagellation? Would I become what you

Truly have been? Through another person’s

Point of view? Without knowing a thing or two

About the infliction of non-consensual wounds?

Administered by a person of trust and authority,

Presumably, against a child that never grows older

In its harmed agonising body stuck in grief and lethargy,

Incapable of running away and saving herself?


I tried to use love as a verb for you, but

You made it so hard. I thought you would

Be my death. That’s what your fingers felt

Like on my skin, your words in the back of

My head, your foot on the gas pedal, the wrath

In every muscle of your face, how you strained

Your voice until your throat made it hard to swallow,

Dry and cracked, foreshadowing everything,

The gradual decline of your empire.

addiction adult black and white cigarette
Photo by Pixabay on



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