Erica Scott

July 8, 2002 - Florida
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It's just grape juice.

I look into their eyes, so pure, full of life,
and wonder where I lost that will to learn.
I look into their eyes as I read from the book I no longer believe in,
and I can’t help but silently cry.
I don’t want them to see, in case it might be true,
that this book of magic words never helped me through,
that the words of this church did the opposite of what Jesus would do.
And as I weep inside, I see their faces light up with questions
“How could this be true?”
“Jesus,” I say. Everything Jesus.
It makes no sense; I know it doesn’t.
But believe what they say, or you’ll be cast away.
Judged out the door,
locked out by side-eyes,
and cut with whispers.
I don’t know, kids.
I don’t understand it either.
How could people of faith give nothing but splinters?
They embed,
prod,
and poke their way through.
So may I suggest,
before you cut to the left or to the right,
look deep in the mirror and say the lord’s prayer,
if it’s good for the blood at communion, it’s good anywhere.
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