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Babyeater

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I was raised under one spoke
Of the umbrella of jesus christ.
But I’m gone now and I dance in the rain,
Soaking up every last drop of my sinfulness.

In the pews, their fiery tongues are hard at work.
They say I eat the bodies of aborted babies,
Roast them under the curling, blackening
Pages of a hundred holy bibles.

This is not true.

I would tell them:
“No, no, you’ve got it all wrong;
I simply don’t believe in god.”

And they look at me with a gaze as scorching
As the hell they see me damned to.

And before they promise me their prayers,
I’d like to say (I’d like to scream):

“Look around, how am I any less than you?”

Look around, I never needed
Your approval, or some greater being,
To prove my worth, to guide my life.
Is the world’s natural beauty not enough?
Is it somehow made more meaningful
If you say it was made in seven days?

But I say nothing, only think.

You sit out of the rain and cower in the dry,
Safe and warm and deaf and blind.
And you say you’ve seen the light.



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