The boys who stole my innocence
On Facebook funded mission trips,
A worship leader in the church
That guitarist’s fingers strummed me first.

And not even til like his third or fourth try,
But, you know what? It’s cool, I hear he’s actually a really great guy.
I only resisted two or three times,
Said, “men are too visual, can’t interpret your signs.”

Besides, he’s God’s chosen, a man set apart in his time—
(But I say of men anointed, very few will rise.)

No hymnals for worship, this churchboy’s lips sang of me
Instead of the Gospel he was spreading my knees
Lies like ether, no sweeter wool for my eyes
Wet toothed and vile, shameless in his guise.

He says Jesus saved him; who was there to save me?
Perdition for a seductress—they call it PTSD.
And when his lips brush heaven, God will taste me;
My trauma at least, will have immortality.