Washed are the feet of the sinners

Washed are the feet of the sinners - Lyla Stidham (New Mexico School for the Arts, 11th Grade)

There’s blood in my mouth here. 

My fist and yours forcing teeth into the flesh of their tongue. 

Thick red rolls over cheeks and chin 

to drip over the virgin holding candle you bought at Walmart. 

It was $1.57. 

My sacrifice was never accepted, 

But it was you and not them who did the rejecting. 

Who decided the blood of me and my brothers 

Was not pure enough to save another soul. 

I watch it drip down the cheeks of Mother Mary like tears. 

Then, when my penance was denied, 

My body was still lay in the mess of gore you pulled from it. 

The crimson flowing from my lips, 

smeared on the white dress you pulled over my head. 

You told me it made me special. 

So when the corpse of my belief stretches a final grasp at your toes, Do not give it a hand to hold. 

Because when you return to the thousands of other special girls in white dresses, They will wash my blood off your feet and leave my body to rot.