First and foremost, 

 F o r e v e r  thankful to you. 

For the fantastic feeling of when 

found further from your figure,  

suddenly forgetful of: 

 the differences 

 between the fragrance of church alcohol and incense  

on your breath. 

                                                              “Oh, whine, whine, whine! You wonderfully foolish girl.” 

But do you feel it? The twisting of thy stomach? 

With the thought of, 

                                                                                             “Why would she want to wander?” 

                                                                             “I give her everything, yet she squanders…” 

Let me word this way fonder than intended— 

I wish you’d writhe and wither in your wretched wine. 

Wading too deep into the liquid’s warmth. 

Try to create your own raft, made with worn, ripped wool.

Sink further down in that Red Sea: 

On your pews, bend at your knee 

like you did to me 

every morning. 

You “created” me—? No. 

  You cursed me. 

You captivated crowds with your convolution. 

Now, you throw me into that bottle filled with carbonation. 

These bubbles circumvent my cries of your corruption. 

They cripple me with their crude constriction. 

Force you into their control– 

but never try to claim that you ever listened. 

Another vice of crapulence 

The chance to cancel your consumption— 

completely cast aside. 

                               Too caught up in your pride. 

                               The wideness of your bright eyes; 

                               they dull when you find the Father

                                           or the Son. 

And I faltered. 

After every night. 

I saw the glutton in your soul. 

              I found it  

at the base of your alters. 

With the same amount of love you ever gave me, 

Your dearest, 

 Lucy.