I know exactly what is happening to me. At twelve years old, you would think I concernmyself only with Maths and childish things like how to spell "apparently". But all of my innocence is a lie. I have had my body seen while I had no cloths on. And on some nights, I've had it touched.I am a little in between the prayers of my mother begging me to find God and asking Him to hold me tight- as though God turns clumsy when He's with me, that Hewould slip from His throne and be unable to catch me, breaking my mother's fragile heart.I am not pleased with the church. All my skirts are either too tight or too short and there's no room for my little rebelliousness but- come as you are: wretched, lost and blind. Lies. Everyone gathered in this temple is in the habit of tearing down. I know no one who builds or nourishes or loves- without a little “strip away your darkness; my light is better.”What if I don't want to be found? What if your light's so bright it burns me on the skin and leaves me sore through the night? What if all of this is blinding and I can't even find my way back home to here? Teach me how to stay above false fires because yours burns worst of all.This is why on Sundays I leave the cross for mother alone to carry. There's a God in her spine that can last both of us a long time and this is enough- for me. I would rather be kissed than have a prayer spill from my lips. I would rather be touched than feel my knees hit the ground- a language of surrender that burns my chest.Bless me while I stand, Lord. Bless me without having to make a slave out of me first, Lord. Bless me without the pity. Tell me now- how is Heaven making scores off my weakness; how is my sorrow looking like in your glory?I would rather have my body beneath the weight of a man, making heavy and sweet music between my thighs than give an empty praise that will end with a lump in my throat.I know exactly what is happening to me and believe me when I say this moment is sweet. In the dark, under these sheets, a finger slides down and deep, and I do not fight it. Mother says there are locked rooms inside all women. While Jesus opens a door to her heart, a man opens a door to mine. Sometimes it hurts but shouldn't the finding be a little painful? Sometimes I'm out of breath but shouldn't the finding be a wild chase? Sometimes, and just sometimes, I'm terrified that all the rooms would be left open wide and should I want to run, there'll be nowhere else to go; but shouldn't the finding, at least, be a second home?The End