My Scar My Scar Mommy, Ive killed God. You wanted a target; in that location it is, plain as day (no two-level, deep meanings attached). My scar isnt external, nor, do I suppose, is it internal. Heck, I dont know what it is but alone my demeanor I know its been my scar, my burden. I have a enigma with Christianity. But I dont show disrespect to those who involve to celebrate it (unless they try to impose their beliefs on me), and I dont motor my thoughts on anyone (you are choosing to read this). You want sex, intoxication, violence, incest and death? immortalize the record book! Though, on second thought, by chance you should ride out to Lost Souls by Poppy Z.
Brite, its often better. I killed God when I was serene little; no one made me. Or maybe they did! Maybe the suspender hours a week of religious direction for ten years did, maybe it was the bible passages they told a live full of six-year-olds, because no matter how pretty the stories they told us were, I always knew they were near easy answers. ...If you want to get a full essay, tack together it on our website:
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