“spirits in my room”
at fourteen years old,
kneeling on a top bunk
with folded arms and crawling nerves,
the Holy Ghost boring holes into my eyelids —
i was searching through blooming darkness
for a prayer,
pleading to be visible to a God unseen.
“friend or foe?”
my throat closed with the effort
of excluding my intrusive thoughts
and facing Him, un-angry.
“ever since the seventh grade”
there had been no option but eternity,
no love that wasn’t Heavenly,
no path to reach the dead without the Gospel.
“i learned to fire-breathe,”
seething through sacrament meetings
with steam pouring from between my reverent lips.
i watched the vacant friendliness
that flickered round me,
retreated into an abyss
of bitter piety.
“i’ll morph to someone else”
i told myself,
followed every rule for righteousness,
let myself be shepherded.
“i’m just a ghost” my still, small voice
still told me,
and i knew at 6 a.m. in seminary
that there was no Heaven
for my tortured conscience.
“you’re facing down a dark hall,”
my mother confessed,
on an overcast afternoon on the interstate,
spinning visions of polygamous marriages
for me, nervously.
“i’ll go with you”
i knew i’d say eventually,
devoted to the beliefs of all my family
even as Babel came crashing down
and our voices became foreign to one another.
“felt i was invincible”
with my newfound “anti-Mormon” knowledge,
challenging my teacher
as the kids i had grown up with
frowned with fearful curiosity.
it “wrapped around my head,”
toxic spirituality,
as i returned day after day to
shake forbidden facts like bells
on a discordant tambourine.
“i’ve always been collected, calm and chill” —
the kid that took the critiques,
repeated the prayers,
hummed the hymns.
“never look for conflict for the thrill”
was the advice i tore to shreds,
armoring myself with shorter shorts
and spaghetti straps,
seeking a rebellion.
“our culture can treat a loss”
of purity and faith
“like it’s a win.”
i still received a 100
on the seminary end-of-year exam,
and my Mormon friends still greeted me
with luminescent smiles.
no one seemed to understand
how fully i was leaving.
“nice to know my kind will be on my side” —
i decided to find new friendships,
to not “believe the hype,”
to let go of my fear to not fit in
and feel all of my
worldly teenage feelings.
“what a beautiful day for making a break for it”
and choking on coffee beans,
when i didn’t have to wear a skirt
for hours on end. still —
“we’ll win but not everyone will get out.”
my best friend still trekked to church
with her family every Sunday,
the Son-of-God day
of stained glass and glazed-eye singing.
“i don’t mind at all,”
i told my parents,
ignoring every crack in my foundation.
i wouldn’t be able to “lean on my pride”
for years, till i could comprehend myself
and spot the rise of nostalgic rainbows.
all i had now
were shattered temples.
“this is the sound we make,”
“Trench” on repeat
from October to July,
battering my eardrums
as a daily lullaby.
“when in between two places,”
i had little but my
favorite lyrics to dissect
and tenderly relate to.
i was finally imperfect enough
to scoff at the idea of perfection,
“done with tip-toeing”
through religion. i was resolved to
“stay in my room”
where prayers had paralyzed me
only months before.
now i rocked myself back and forth
in unbelief.
i was “one of those classic ones,”
part of the family no one expected to leave.
“now everybody”
knew how lost i was.
twenty one pilots pervaded every part of it,
every tedious tear as i approached 2020,
helped me to tarnish
my internal reputation
with the songs of tragic truth
and tedious departing.
every word was sung for me.
i would go to church —
not the mormon one, just any with a melody —
if i could watch without interaction,
let my eyes breathe,
no longer pressured to water,
no longer forcing themselves to see.
i would click my heels thrice
and wish on eyelashes
with the backdrop of Bethlehem
unfolding from the organ.
this is a feeling
i’ve had to arrive at.
it used to be i couldn’t breathe
when i heard the word forever,
and any god was awful.
i simply had to think,
“for now i will stay alive,”
not really believing that to “leave the city”
wasn’t just to leave my church
but to slowly crawl
through trenches towards
a hope i could call home.
Brigid May is from Holly Springs, North Carolina, double majoring in harp performance and classics/English. Outside of the Wheel, they perform with the Emory University Symphony Orchestra and serve on the Emory Musician's Network executive board. They are a lover of poetry, handmade jewelry, and tarot readings.
