By Shyloh Crawfurd
Part 1
You taught me prayers before I could speak,
Told me God would shelter the meek.
You sealed the doors, locked out the world,
Tamed the wild child, and tied the boy.
No sleeveless shirts, no dancing late,
No open roads, just heaven’s gate.
You clipped the noise, the music, light—
Told me “truth” was what felt right.
You gave me courage wrapped in chains,
A voice to sing, then called it vain.
You said to soar, to trust the skies—
Then cast me out with severed ties.
Why give me the courage to fly,
Only to snip my wings yourself?
No longer grounded by my choice,
But sentenced still, without a voice.
At eighteen, I stood on sacred stone,
And watched you leave me all alone.
No suitcase packed with second chance,
Just folded hands and backward glance.
The shelter walls, the aching cold,
Replaced the pews, the cross, the gold.
No more “Amen,” just echoes sharp—
Of love that stops when life gets hard.
I found a Savior in the street,
Not in the sermons, soft and sweet.
I found my worth in nights unspoken,
In hunger’s truth, in systems broken.
I still believe in something bright,
But not in those who dimmed my light.
You raised me high to watch me fall—
But I am rising, after all.
And though the scars still sting with frost,
I’ll bear them for the love you lost.
For even broken wings can mend,
And I will fly—
just not again
for them.
Part 2
The shelter walls, the aching cold,
Replaced the pews, the cross, the gold.
No more “Amen,” just echoes sharp—
Of love that stops when life gets hard.
They preached of grace, then closed the door,
Left me with less than ever before.
A prayerless night, a Styrofoam plate,
Became my ritual every day.
The hymns still haunt these hallowed halls—
But not with comfort—ghosts, not calls.
I see their eyes in every face
That turns from pain, then speaks of grace.
I once believed in something whole,
But faith grew teeth and took its toll.
My questions made their voices thin—
Their version broke, but never bent.
A child raised to fear his name,
To shrink in shame, to shoulder blame.
I begged for mercy, got a rule—
A warning dressed in Sunday school.
Still, somehow, I remain—
Not saint, not sinner—just the strain
Of learning love that does not break,
Or give, then turn away and take.
And now I build from splintered things—
From weathered hope and clipped-off wings.
I stitch the sky with trembling hands,
And rise, though no one understands.
I’m not your verse, your tidy psalm,
Not saved, not lost—just scared and calm.
A truth too wild for softened pews—
A life reclaimed you’d still refuse.
The shelter walls, the aching cold,
Became the fire that made me bold.
No more “Amen,” no hollow part—
Just me, rebuilding from the start.
Part 3
I once believed in something whole,
But faith grew teeth and took its toll.
It bit the hand that dared to bleed,
Then smiled and called it holy need.
The pages whispered of a light,
But every verse was laced with fright.
Don’t speak too loud, don’t want too much,
Be pure, be small, be sweet to touch.
I swallowed rules like bitter wine,
Mistook the ache for the divine.
They built a heaven out of fear,
And told me love lived only here.
But love, I’ve learned, is not control.
It doesn’t cage or shame the soul.
It doesn’t cut to make you new,
Or leave you when you need it too.
The sermons said, “He has a plan.”
But where was God when it began—
The nights alone, the hunger’s cry,
The prayers I whispered to the sky?
I once believed the fault was mine,
That maybe pain was by design.
But bruises bloom where silence grows,
And faith, unchecked, forgets it knows.
Now I unlearn what broke me down—
The quiet choke, the thorn-wrapped crown.
I build a voice from shattered songs,
I make my own where I belong.
I trace my scars, not out of shame,
But proof I stayed when no one came.
I’ve made a light inside this hole—
From wreckage stitched into a soul.
So clip my wings and call it sin,
But I am rising from within.
Not saved, not damned, not yours to name—
But something holy just the same
Part 4
I used to flinch at shadows’ weight,
Mistaking absence for my fate.
The prayers they made me memorize
Were lullabies in saintly lies.
I knelt to gods who watched me break,
Who called it love for heaven’s sake.
I wore the guilt like second skin,
Believing I invited sin.
They said, “Obey, and you’ll be blessed,”
But blessings came with hands and threats.
Each verse a warning wrapped in gold—
Each promise crumbled when I told.
They called it healing, called it grace,
But all I saw was His blank face.
My body wasn’t born impure,
But they convinced me pain was cure.
I once believed I had to bend,
To twist, to shrink, to make amends.
But now I see what wasn’t mine—
The shame, the hush, the forced design.
I count the ribs they taught to hide,
The parts of me they crucified.
But even ghosts will fade with time—
And I am not their perfect crime.
I speak, though silence cost me years.
I write, though trembling through the tears.
And every line they tried to bind
Now sings with what they could not find.
I am the hymn they never knew,
A faith reborn, not built on you.
And though I rise with battered wings,
I soar beyond their reckoning.