Every day a little closer to the truth.
Every day a little further away.
Always such a fine line that divides the two.
With the hostile tug-of-war between fire and ice –
little Mary’s become a little sinful:
spilling blood in the pews,
dragging her fingers through the ashes,
and drinking the holy water while she dances
and Father disapproves…
I found ways to build walls
protecting myself, protecting you.
You found ways to twist the truth,
justifying your self-inflicted wounds.
In the end we stand with our backs pressed
against each other
breath fogging both sides of the mirror
and our hearts held in the grasps of the
people we thought we knew.