God Wouldn’t Do That To Me

Sam Brown

As the autumn leaves fall,

I reminisce on us.

I forgive myself

for how I lowered myself

for you — my false idol.

I had spent years

building myself up from nothing,

licking my wounds,

making amends for my wrongs.

I was growing into a woman

of trust,

faith,

serenity,

and grace.

I believed in you.

I trusted you.

I was always a game to you —

a pawn on your board of control.

Checkmate.

God wouldn’t do that to me.

I wish I could gather

all my fallen tears,

gasps of desperation and pleas,

my thoughts of inadequacy,

doubt,

fear,

envy,

torture,

and illusion —

and hand them to you.

They don’t belong to me anymore.

Let them haunt you now,

so you can finally feelwhat I’ve felt

for years.

I don’t need answers

for irrelevant questions anymore.

God wouldn’t do that to me.

I am an angel

wrapped in the devil’s skin.

I wear the markings of the beast,

the burn marks from your touch.

As I kneeled to you,

you scorched my flesh

and tried to infest my soul.

But my soul

was never yours.

God wouldn’t do that to me.

I pray for your salvation.

And as I walk

into this new life,

I hope you watch

from the biggest screen

sold to the masses.

I was always made to shine.

I was always meant

to have my hands kissed,

doors opened,

and my heart held

by the hands that weave gold —

not by a man

who would ever

lay his hands on me.

God wouldn’t do that to me.