I was stopped by a man in a room made of gold
He sat and told me his life story
yet he couldn't look me in the eyes
as he called me beautiful
We were both looking for "God" in all the wrong places
he looked to the floor as he told me stories of abusse
he'd suffered at the hand of people who had looked like me
I was looking for god behind him;
a fenced in garden teeming with weeds
"Satan she called me, Satan she called me"
Had I been th e person I wanted to be, I would have been listening to his tale,
feeling some sort of empathy as his tears hit the floor of this golden room.
Instead, I was preoccupied by a feeling I've come to know for a while now.
As far as I can remember, I've held onto this pain, yet I always mistook it for Pride.