the sins of the father

A man sits atop a black throne.

He pays no mind to the sinners below him— no mind to any but me.

For me, he keeps a special seat at his right hand;

A small, rusted rocking chair with paint peeling up at the edges.

He takes my hand, and then my heart, and then my name.

Makes no discrimination between touch and do not.

He keeps the water boiling hot.

I, the sinner, am victim of his temperament.

He rejoices and I am praised;

He suffers and I am made a villain.

Either way, I beg for forgiveness.

Either way, I end up kneeling.

It is hell not in experience, but in memory—

Hell not in newness, but in repetition.

The torture of living only surpassed by the torture of reliving.

I did not know to fear death.

I did not know who I would see.