I was broken when I met you.
I was just a lost soul, hugging my chest
To keep the cracked remains of my heart from shattering completely.
I couldn’t see it at first, but the strange parallels to our life experiences
Tell me that maybe you were a little bit broken, too.
I was the girl who had the Gospel in her smile
And the Devil in her hands.
I made myself a martyr, pressed nails into my hands and feet,
And hid my bloody knuckles inside the hymnal books at Sunday mass.
When you met me, I was the one who wanted to fly to the stars
Because I was greedy enough to want to touch the heavens.
But if I am to be punished for being greedy,
I want to die having first tasted the sun.
I was on a self-destructive path to nowhere, when we met.
You took my Catholic guilt and rearranged it, redirected it.
I knew then that only you could see how badly I need to shatter
And then somehow make the destruction beautiful.
I thought you were going to remake me
To fix me and make me better than before.
But instead it got worse,
Because I was put back together wrong.
My resentment was misplaced towards you; for that, I apologize: I put a task on your
shoulders without your knowledge, because I believed you to be on a pedestal—
But just because you were the opposite of what I’d always known
Didn’t mean that you weren’t broken, too.