A Bad Cliche

I have an uncle, he's a dirty old man. i grew up with a bad cliche

I have learned to find other things to do on family holidays

I have tried to love the sinner and only hate the sin

But whoever wrote that never got caught in a dark corner with him

I keep a baseball bat under my bed and i always leave on a light

The same time each year i get up and check the locks

Sometimes three times at night

And if god helps those who help themselves

Where was god in my formative years

Why give me a voice to call out with and then deafen so many ears?

I have tried to forget his breath,

I have tried to forget his hands

The mechanics don't confuse me like they used to

But i still don't understand

The 9-year-old she was frightened

The 12-year-old learned not to care

Stick a sharp thin knife long into her heart

She could not even feel it was there

And there's a patch of skin between my shoulder blades

That's still just a little bit numb

It seems to be there to remind me

Of the destruction i have undone

I try to love the sinner but it's more than the sin will allow

I've looked a long time into the dark,

Hoping the truth would show me how