Cult kid logic

Cult kid logic

We were there, smoking cigarettes we stole from our grandmothers purse under the blue and red stained glass beams.

Toiling in the hollowed remnants of our god-fearing youth while dressed in

our Sunday best.

Racing each other to an early grave.

I can’t remember why dying young seemed so appealing.

Maybe we left our will to live in those church pews the last day we sat though service.

The pastor, with laser eyesight fixed on our small group, spoke about how the devil is alive and well.

We didn’t find that gesture holy,

nor did we take offense.

We just sat stoically, staring into his eyes with a look of confirmation, almost as if to say “we know”,

but our defiance was always soon followed by a subtle position of sadness and disappointment.

Sadness only carried by the fact that it wasn’t the devil we feared,

but rather our parents fear of an eternity in hell.

The disappointment we brought on our elders for being unafraid to break generational curses and stray from his path in order to define ours. We know the price we’ll eventually pay for the lives we’ve made;

and as god as my witness,

I accept the charges.