Groan

Birthed into black,
my head in a bag
unable to breathe
without feeling the
suffocation of your absence,
slowly spinning my eyes
backwards into the sky
where they cannot be
retrieved.

Raised on baby-bottles
filled with milked soured
by salty tears,
weaned by dirty pacifiers
and torn blankets,
with holes of your making
cut with the same scissors
that separated us
and my bellybutton still aches.

Grown and groaning
for the lost days
of light and fresh air,
your smudging hands,
and crocheted blankets
decorated with promises.
Offered to other
more fortunate babes,
that I will never be.

You ought to remember,
that I didn't choose you.

The Sin Offering

You say the sacrifice has been brought,
The altar prepared,
And as the burnt offering smokes it's way to heaven,
You say the Lord is pleased.
In the next breath you take it back,
To say that the Lord is disappointed,
The way this lamb was offered,
Has brought the Lord to tears.
I am reminded of the leash on my neck,
Being dragged behind you,
The lamb, for the offering.
This sin had to be atoned,
And you can say that you are now forgiven,
But I am still spent and spilled,
All over this altar wood.
You said yourself that the Lord is displeased,
I would more than agree with you there,
Because I know my God would not delight in my sacrifice,
As much as you may have.
You may have learned something from this,
But I have learned something of limitless value,
And that is that no longer will I play the lamb,
I will not remain on your altar,
I will be used for nothing,
and God may forgive you,
But I haven't yet.