I don’t want to know his chest tore open, but I keep imagining it.

I picture it happening the way mind did.

There are parallels in any type of suffering,

Even if I’ve never been absolutely crucified the way he must have been.

I nailed him to a cross and he let me,

And he watched as I walked away,

Leaving him to the crows,

To the absolute rot of being unloved.


I can’t hold him,

Or even give him a sympathetic smile.

I can’t tell him it’s going to be okay,

Because me saying anything about it at all

Is just another winged scavenger

Pulling at his flesh,

Making the process of dying

That much more revulsive.

And painful.


I shouldn’t have done it,

But now,

In the rubble of the aftermath,

The best thing I can do

Is to walk away.

-Celestina Rogers

Written and drawn by.

17 years old



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