Fucking Christ

 
My life is littered with the remnants of saviors:
bloody crosses and thorny crowns.
 
Oh, how they love girls like me.
 
See, this holy type–he lets you kill him,
even if you don’t realize what you’re doing
until you’ve already done it.
 
And sure, he carries all your burdens, all your heavy secrets,
but he leaves you with guilt.
And it’s heavier than all the sin in the world.
 
Oh, what sacrifice!
Oh, what love!
But at the end of it all, he’s gone.
And you’re left with nothing but his blood on your hands
and his broken promises.
 
I’m tired of Jesus.
 
I’m tired of watching them bleed out for me,
of crying by the tomb once they’re gone.
 
I’m tired of them using me to fulfull
some prophecy in their own heads–
some painful, one-sided version of love.
 
I don’t need their grace. Benevolence. Blood.
I am not just a victim.
 
I’ve realized–I can save myself.
glaring1
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