Every part of myself
My writing desk
Under my bed
The closets stuffed
With piles of tear-stained blankets
And icons of saints
Were ripped open
Their contents dumped into a pile
‘Clean it up
Fix it
You Papist pig’
You softly ask
In your falsely sweet tone
Places I thought were safe
Places I thought were mine
You have violated
I stand
My soul naked
Trying to cover myself
With the shreds of
Clothing dignity
That are left
After you claw at me
And stare
At my wretched attempts
To clean
