My religion teacher told me that there are many people who like to play God.

As a Catholic school girl,

I denounced any and all heretics

And swore my loyalty to His heavenly name.

She told me that we are all a part of the Kingdom of God,

Yet by kindergarten, I found myself on the outside of its doors,

Banging and begging admission

As angels gawked at me blankly from within.

Their stoic eyes were a social stoning;

I built walls around myself with the rocks laid at my feet

And used leftovers as ammunition against those who faced the same plight-

Perhaps that is where I was first drawn to her.

Her raven hair whipped with every twist and jerk of dance,

Her olive skin sun-kissed.

She was haughty, a know-it-all, they said,

And proud to be;

She cared not for the babbling babies beyond those golden gates,

Nor for those even on her own side.

She was selfish with self-esteem.

Reflection rings to my mind the reality of what we could have been.

She stole my innocence in a glance as I stoned her from the new angle

Of a friend turned enemy

And said,

"You think you're so high and mighty, don't you?

You think you're a god, don't you?"

I built the walls as high as my head

So I would not have to face her

Or myself

Again.

After years of self-reflection, I wonder

Are we really forgiven if all we do is ask?

You can count the footprints like fossils in the mud and see how far I've come,

And through what I've done it.

I am a sheep atop a mountain, gaze cast down

Upon the lambs lost along the same trail.

I can pride myself all I want on the present,

But the past has still traps me like the stone slab on the Lord's tomb,

A resonating reminder that the resurrection has yet to be achieved,

That I am still waiting for the rapture

And wondering if the Lord can see me

Behind these stone walls I built-

Or are these the mountains I toiled so long to climb?

Looking back upon it,

I should have perished alongside Judas and Peter,

Yet through stoning's

And accusations-

Sacrifice

And crucifixions-

I remain.

The sun is about to rise on the third day

And as I await the slow ascension to its throne

I can hear her voice again,

Echoing in my mind-

A cherubic cacophony of harps and trumpets and choir-

"You think you're so high and mighty, don't you?

You think you're a god, don't you?"

If I could defend my innocence in a glance, I would say,

"I do not think I am a god;

I just happen to be just as invincible,

And just as good looking."