To be born, to be recklessly kept, and to be nobody’s – is the root of ruin. My ruin.
As Advent advances, I feel an increasing ache that only the maggots and the manager bring. It is an ache one long-held in ransom; one born in lonely exile; one exhausted by expectation.
We, who proclaim Christendom, have been nothing like our Christ.
Now that I am studying the anatomy of abuse, I run my fingers under the skin of slaughtered souls who are still alive.
Where does that leave us? We, the majority for whom justice will never be adjudicated and for whom victory is a vapor?
I wonder if anyone can speak?
If all lips are licked with lies.