Mourning



Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? WHY!
Why, please, why, why would You create me this way?
Knowing that I bleed and burn and ache and break and eventually suffocate.
Please don't hold this against me, or consider this a demand,
Because I still don't understand.

Millenia and Millenia, Man have offered you praises, praises, and praises,
And Thanksgivings and Allelulias because
You created them to free, and best of all,
You did not create them the way You created me.
Or her, or her over there, or she in the corner,
Or she over there who still sleeps in her grave.
I can't understand it.

I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I know it's wrong
To question my maker, but
I can't control it; it is bursting out of my every pore and
I understand if I am unforgivable because that's what
These imaginary chalk lines at the scene of this crime
All point to anyway.
Maybe I kinda sorta understand.

Veiled in agony; the hurt is too real.
Left here to survive. Somehow I must.
Clawing, tearing, grapsing.
I live, I live, I live.
Father God, am I forsaken?

I say no. No. No. No.
I am not forsaken. I live.
I will heal, the flow of blood
Shall cease and wholeness will
Take its place. I love. I love.

So I have wailed against patriarchy.
It's strength and power was most
Unfriendly; and quite fearsome.
God did not create woman to suffer.
Its shadows, its wings, a protective
Covering, brings life to me.