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Rated: E · Poetry · Religious · #2282661
This poem signifies the beginning of the end of allowing my old church to silence me.
Don’t bother telling me that it wasn’t my fault;
that it wasn’t up to me to look for the signs—
to protect my brothers,
or to see through our pastor’s disguise.

Don’t bother telling me that I shouldn’t feel guilty;
that it wasn’t my job as a 19-year-old to stand up against a group of older, more powerful leadership we had all been conditioned to 'honor.'

Don’t bother telling me that I didn’t do anything wrong;
that I was just well-meaning, non-confrontational, or young—
that I couldn’t have really done anything even if I had had the courage to.


Don’t tell me any of that.
Tell them
the church,
the pastors,
the staff,
the incoming Interns they’re poisoning,
the congregation.

Tell. Them.

Because they are the ones who put it on us;
the victims,
the witnesses,
the families,
the friends,
the people who actually care.

Tell. Them.

Because we’re done carrying it.
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