Wella

Wella, I—
I didn't know.
How could I possibly have known?
Scripture is hurled at me,
But it goes "in one ear out the other,"
As my mother likes to say.


So I burn.
I'm on fire,
Up in flames,
In the spaces in between my ribs,
Where holy light ought to be,
but ain't.


"Swear your soul to Jesus," 
They say,
But my mind flinches at the mere though.
They say I am possessed, 
That the devil knows my name and I, his.


Wella, I—
I never knew.
How could I possibly have know?
That some prayers turn to ashes,
And maybe, just maybe,
I was born to burn.