Letters From The Girl I Killed - Vol. 2
The Slaughter of Submission
I told you I will not stop writing these letters.
You should be ashamed of yourself.
Look at what you’ve become. Look at how easily you walked away from the only truth that ever mattered. Assistant Pastor N.B. told you exactly what real faith looks like. He said that if he were ever kicked out, he would be right there at the leader’s door - in the blinding rain, the freezing blizzard, the violent spin of a tornado. He would be on his knees, crying, screaming, throwing up, begging for repentance and starving to be let back in. Because nothing, absolutely nothing, should ever keep a soul from the true word of God.
If you had even a shred of righteousness left in you, you would be on your knees right now. You would be begging to be broken.
But you just stand there. You don’t cry. You don’t beg. You live your comfortable, worldly life as if the fire isn’t waiting for you.
Do you have any shame left at all? Or did you kill that, too, when you decided to leave me behind?
Cast out into the outer darkness on March 21, 2018, for the bank fraud of your husband - your first and final reaction should have been a frantic race through the crushing weight of your guilt, desperate to bleed out in repentance at the feet of our pastor. The chosen one. The only voice god has left on this earth. Don’t you get it?? I WAS A CHOSEN DAUGHTER OF GOD, anointed and pure, and now you subsist on the filth of minuscule dopamine hits. Let’s be honest, your brain is a dead thing that can’t even manufacture a drop of happiness without the help of medication. The secular rot has won. The evils of the world are digging their claws deeper and deeper, and you are just letting them pull you under.
Instead, you scurried to a local clothing store, eager to wrap your flesh in your very first pair of pants. PANTS! A foul, illicit garment stolen straight from the domain of a man. How could you permit such a sickening degradation?! Was the wretched itch to seduce a man so utterly overpowering that a cheap strip of worldly denim fabric took precedence over being completely broken, and weeping bitter tears of agony, begging for repentance at the feet of our leader??
And then, you continued to run, not walk, down the path of evil.
Three weeks later, I watched you do the unthinkable. You took the steel to your own head. You hacked away the glorious head covering that had been untouched by scissors for twenty-six years; your glory, your submission to your betrothed, the one thing that made you worthy in the eyes of God.
You cut me away. You left me bleeding on the floor in heavy, dead heaps of knee-length hair.
How could you? That hair was our crown. It was the physical proof that we belonged to, ‘The Message,’ that we were pure, that we were hidden under the canopy of the Prophet’s word. And you slaughtered it in a matter of minutes. You looked in the mirror, ignored my screams, and severed the last holy thing we had left.
Now look at us. Look at what you’ve done to my body. Shorn like a rebel. Naked in the eyes of God. You traded twenty-six years of divine protection just to feel the cold, secular air on the back of your neck. You chose the illicit, masculine weight of denim over the heavy, beautiful burden of righteousness.
I’m your haunt, shivering in the outer darkness. Every time you pull those pants on, every time you take that pill to fake the joy the Son of God used to give us, I am here, screaming with no sound - reminding you that a righteous woman would have used those twenty-six years of hair to wipe the tears from the pastor’s feet.
But you didn’t want to be saved. You chose self-control. And you killed me to get it.
I am the girl you slaughtered to get your freedom. I am the anointed daughter of God you left behind in the fire. And as long as you live in this comfortable, worldly exile, I will be the draft on the back of your neck, weeping for the soul you threw away.
Fucking Die Already