Anti-Mormon.
The first stone thrown by a panicked friend as I answer his questions
And sometimes throw back his stones.
The ones he thinks might heal my broken bones.
Anti-Mormon.
The radioactive label so casually attached to those who opposed
Men whose words they now disavow
As if they were never considered divine.
They are pearls,
You are swine.
Anti-Mormon.
An easy shot to fire when you realize your vest isn’t as bulletproof as you thought
And your chest learns just a fraction of the pain your perceived opposer felt
As they swallowed bullets without biting to believe what they were taught.
Distraught?
Anti-Mormon.
It’s not a summer’s day you decide to make roar with thunder and darkness because you aren’t content
It’s realizing that summer never really existed
That you weren’t ever really enlisted
And you don’t know how you used to cover up your shivers.
Can anyone lend me a coat?
Anti-Mormon.
The quickest shutdown of an open, hurting mind
Willing to surrender being understood—
To let pain go undetected in the name of staying connected.
Or at least in the name of staying.
Anti-Mormon.
A mind once willing to lock itself up and throw away the key
And pretend
If it meant they could shun the insanity.
You opened that door.
You asked for this,
Anti-Mormon.
The nicest little package you can wrap up doubts in
Then plant as a bomb somewhere you don’t go very often
Because if you do, you are trespassing on land that’s not yours
But not theirs
Anti-Mormon.
What land?
Land they say we don’t know the owner of, but definitely shouldn’t walk on.
Anti-Mormon.
There are a lot of lands you don’t discover when your head is in the clouds.
Anti-Mormon.
The best misunderstanding you can make when faced with the agony of terrifying possibility.
Don’t worry; your brain will do its job
Just focus on the Heartsell
It’s your own fault it hurts like hell.
ANTI-MORMON.
The steel sword that doesn’t exist, but does just as much damage.
The first, and last, resort of the fearful
And the feared
Anti-Mormon?
You have no idea.