10.  All the Missed Marks

I think I've missed the mark

again, and isn't that what You

tell me sin is? Festering here

in a little sizzling pot

of my insecurities, a dash

of who I thought I was

supposed to be,

and the tiniest hint

of all the lost loves

who forgot that love

was the point?

I was angrier than all

the feminists because

even though I didn't know

You, I also did–a little Catholic

girl who had said her prayers

at night and saw the sadness

of Your face as you hung

from the nails in Your flesh,

and the wall of my church.

But then girls grow up

and get drunk to any sense

of virtue because virtue

is a bit exhausting

when the whole world

is after the way you

smile and bow your head.

But here we are again,

full circle,

where I realize the world

has never had its flesh

rammed with nails,

torn to shreds,

or scarred with love

it's bled out and over

all the missed marks

of someone like me.