I don’t know who you are, and it’s too hard to keep pretending 
that you’re more than the mark of an old scar that doesn’t hurt anymore. 
I’ve grown numb of the fear that everything I’ve done 
was being controlled by the father, by the son, by the holy ghost you’ve [bad word] 

I would fold my hands and buckle to my knees, 
and I would pray the sky would fall down on me. 
I would stumble to the shore to be baptized in the waves 
if it meant that everything we know doesn’t go away, someday.

I know my mother cries when she realizes I don’t love you like she does, 
but still she bows her head and prays that you forgive me. 
So what does that make me? The unloving, ungrateful son of a saint? 
What if that makes me the monster an angel raised? 

It’s so cold in the shadow of their faith, 
but I will not be [bad word] for heaven’s sake.