It's Not My Fault


If every little flaw in me sends me back
to spankings
for sliding down the carpeted stairs in footed pajamas,
And to teachers' scoldings
for giggling in the back of Spanish . . .

If my every misgiving
compels me to ask why,
what does it mean,
and who has done this to me . . .

Then I lose myself 
in conjecture,
constructed from vivid memories and sentiment and anger.

And when I find a source
for my scruples
then you must understand
that it's not my fault.
I am innocent.
I am doing the best I can
with what's been given me.
No one can demand any more.

And I need not ask myself
if what I do is right and good
or good enough.
I need not discover 
that it is not,
or that my faith is misplaced.

I've found proof
that I'm blameless.
And that proof
is not the blood of the lamb.

The devil wins.


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