Crisp and clean,
A perfect Christian pristine,
With rosary beads stringed together with pearls,
White as purity and perfectly soft curls.
At first glance you see an angel,
But there are things only the skeletons in the closet can tell.
There is a sensual crimson underneath that crucifix,
Underneath her bosom lie all her tricks.
The supple fingers and hungry tongues,
Creeping up her neck begging to take the air from her lungs,
Abusing her body with careful precision,
Placing into her being a quick incision,
For Jesus’ golden girl had fallen from grace,
But that’s only what is evident in adversity’s face.
In her eyes she is screaming,
Her fright teeming.
They say she asked for it alright,
But are you truly when a blouse is just a little too tight.
On the way to Sunday school,
When he plucked her from the pickings like the devil’s tool.
Though all they will ever see is a slut.
The fanatics praising the Lord to let her rot.
For the world never sees the truth or accepts it no less,
Nobody will believe it was without her consent.
So now the scene shifts,
Just two years later,
With a trigger finger on the ready,
And tears in both eyes,
No longer could she hear all the lies.
And as a bang hit the heavens, the Lord took her in his arms,
Weeping for his daughter, with all her wits and charms.
For the world would only see her as a rotting corpse,
But truly she was just an angel with a shotgun,
So desperately hurt.