They gave us bibles when we grew up, shoving holy words into the hands of little girls.
And we sing in monotone voices A mighty fortress is our God.
But I found my own holy words when I was ten,
on the A and B sides of a L. Cohen cassette tape in my grandmothers drawers.
A bulwark never failing.
And from his tongue came the sermon of my youth,
I made my bed my altar, I prayed and prayed.
Dear Gods I prayed, shouting my amens into the pillows.
And when I knew for certain my legs could carry me I took only those pillows with me when I ran.
When I wasn’t a woman yet I thought I had been torn,
that someone had dug their hands in to the cracks of my very being and ripped me open.
So with my trembling fingers I opened a part of myself up for scarring.
And he sang that there is a crack in everything, that’s how the light gets in.
I am not broken, is what I heard, I am not broken.
So keep you bibles, I’ll give every young girl songs of love and hate.
And tell them to never be less than Marianne for anyone they want to take their clothes off for,
I say I hope you meet the sisters of mercy when you think you’re lost and we all do our time in the army of joan of arc.
These are holy words, I will say, and we are not broken.