Not Crying on Sunday

The result of 2 AM freestyling with a friend

With a heavy heart

I open my arms to Sunday,

Bearing my soul

In hopes of acceptance

For beautiful Sunday

Will not wait

For my wounds to heal.

Yes,

Sunday marks the day 

That my bruises become fresh

From gripping the flesh

On my quivering body.

Yes,

Sunday marks the day

That old scars are blanketed 

With new scratches

From my uncut nails. 

Yes,

Sunday is the day

That the church bells ring 

In the distance

And I instinctively open my arms to it,

Nice and wide,

With a heavy heart

Because I know 

That it is just another Sunday,

Another Sunday where I sit on a hard pew

Among those who should be my peers

But have forgotten how to love me...

How to love people like me...

So I sit there and feel all alone

Fear in my shaking shoulders

And submission in my down turned eyes

Because yes

I am terrified of Sunday

I am horrified of my dirty little secret

Escaping from my lips one day,

Only to bring looks of disdain from

My unloving loved ones.

I am terrified of Sunday

I am horrified of being struck down 

By a god I'm not yet sure I believe in

Because I was born possessing

A taboo kind of love.

I am dying on Sunday

Because Sunday has dug it's grimy fingers

Deep into my heart

And ripped me from the inside out

So yes,

With a heavy heart

I open my arms to Sunday

Hoping it won't leave my quite as bloody

On the inside as it has on out.

So yes,

I fear Sunday

The pain on Sunday

The tears on Sunday evening,

When I sit alone in my room

Like I sit alone in those pews.

Author's Note

This poem is really about my feelings as a young pansexual being raised in a conservative Methodist church.