From the outcast grandchild

who grew so little since your passing.

My life has twisted and turned

so much it's felt nauseating.

But I am well

and I am alive.

No, that's not my name anymore,

a nasty jumble of four broken letters

that make my insides churn.

I don't like the title so much,

but your wife cherishes it so dearly

loves it more than me.

Loves God more than me.

Every night, she kneels before her bed

cross in hand

and prays my illness away.

"God knows you best," she beams,

and how little she sees the horns upon her head.

Thy kingdom come,

I will be done,

On Earth as it is in Hell, apparently.

No matter what I do,

I'm not enough of what she wants me to be.

I don't know if you'd agree with her.

Am I enough for you?

If you were still here

would you accept me as your grandson?

Her beliefs are suffocating

like thorned vines slithering down my throat

slicing me from the inside out.

A broken mindset, according to her

wielded by a broken body.

"Love thy neighbor," the sacred scripture recites

"Unless if he differs from thee,

then hate shalt guide your path."

Sometimes I wish I could pray to the cursed Almighty

That made a child of Lucifer

and pray to be loved,

pray for healing,

pray to be a real man,

and pray myself away.