if you’re so holy, I guess that makes me damned. Am I still your golden boy, dad? Am I still your good girl? Or am I the wretched thing you ashamedly hide away from all your friends still? Do you tell them about the demon you locked under the floorboards? Do you smell my rotting flesh from where you stand at your pulpit? You asked god to make your child an angel, and so he sent a seraphim. Many eyed, horrifying. Its no wonder you detested me since I could scarce speak.