Stick figure of myself

My faith is a shallow puddle, made murky by one-sided lectures and second guesses. A tall glass of cynicism is an unforgiving drink I pour myself, while sitting on this ledge in my head, as I gaze out at this monstrous puddle.
It's a beautiful sight at dawn.
There are thin lines between hate and confusion, and when the days are long and my feelings get hurt by Supreme Beings, I draw these lines thinner and thinner, nearly invisible by days end. The search for a clear ocean opposed to a cloudy puddle is never-ending, as one of the man in a whole new generation of women without faith. is it technology? Is it sex? Or maybe it's the natural urge to rebel that takes us out of the church and into our own driver's seats that is pushing to go further and further into a world of discovery, and not the old rugged cross. Forgetting about our grandmother's pearls, and our mothers diamonds, we are replacing jewels and instead adorning ourselves with questions - mainly questions about what these same women told us about divinity.
I look at myself in human form. All pink flesh and rushing red blood. I feel my heart beating deep inside me and chemicals that create the humanity that is finite and perishable. When I see someone beautiful I feel the lust rip through me like an electric current, bringing me up to the surface of myself and breaking layers of decency and decorum.
Then there is the incurable darkness. The firecracker of anger that ignites me and keeps me up and in a hurricane of emotion for days at a time.
Regardless of what they preach, I can't forgive everyone. I can't turn the other cheek every time or even love an enemy. I can't ignore the lion scratching at me from the inside telling me to fight until the hurt doesn't hurt anymore. My eyes roll in boredom and disgust at the silly girls I seem to see everywhere that never question, never wonder, and seem to be letting other forces drive her into a desolate area where the Universe has great plans to rape her and deprive her of an original thought. The luminous angel inside of me wants to flutter its soft wings and swoop down and save her from herself, from her own destruction. But the tin soldier in me, the fiery image of a stony cynic, is too busy shaking my head and then looking out of the chapel window. I watch as other young women are walking around outside, chatting with each other and laughing into the eyes of the mid-day sun. Somewhere inside of me I long for that easiness, and that welcoming air of happiness. But the storms that are inside of me, raging then cooling like magma below an inconspicuous surface are bigger and badder than any angels or robed clergy.