rebellion was always right:
your momma said i wasn't allowed anymore
because i kept waking up in your bed.
she didn't know the things we did
when we peeled away our skin and let our cells intermingle.
you taught me of god, and i sometimes cried,
mainly because he loved you, but you didn't love him.
it was one of those things you needed to wrap in cellophane,
our reluctance, because the day it began to get old,
we no longer thought homemade pancakes were good enough
and faith became as senseless as your momma's advice.
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