LOVE THE SINNER, HATE THE SIN
Anna Bylan
As I’ve been told too many times now,
each time sounding worse than the last.
In my ears, I heard nails.
In my throat, I felt them—
the words of my family, of my family friends
seeming so content being so on the fence.
Coming from an adult who taught me for years.
Coming from the priest who never sinned himself.
Coming from my father, my grandfather, my godfather,
it hurt, but that didn’t matter that much.
You can’t heal every wound.
But coming from you, I felt the nails
pounding through my palms,
knowing exactly when and where to hit
and how to make it hurt.
Because now, being around me
makes you a little bit uncomfortable.
You tell me,
“I’m allowed to have my own opinion, right?”
Right.
But I didn’t want it
to be you too.
SHOUT 