This particular peice came about when I saw one of the old postsecret cards I'd saved on my computer. It read, "Sometimes I wish she would lose her religion and find me."

I think this gets weaker in parts, but I like the idea behind it. Perhaps sometime in the future I'll try to go back and fix it.

The title you see when reading the summary is simply because I had to make it G-rated.


i want to make love on sunday
but you shake your head, disentangle my arms
from around your waist, get up
and put on a dress.

i miss you then--
sunday mornings and evenings,
wednesday afternoons,
the week you're at bible camp,
the bakesales,
the volleyball games.

"don't you think you could forget
one dinner?" i beg,
and you shake your head, disentangle my arms
from around your waist, roll up your sleeves
and start making a pie.

it's not that i mind that you're religious.
i know how good it feels to believe
in something.
after all,
i believe in you.

i believe in your kisses and
your love and
in snowstorms,
which means we can cuddle
all fucking day long,
which means your mother
won't call and say,
"pastor john blahblahblah..."
so that your eyes blank over
and our food goes cold
while i blow the candles out.

no, i like the way
your hair falls when you pray
and how your glasses
slip down your nose while
you're reading the bible.
(though it's like shakespeare for me;
i could never get into those long-winded things.)

i don't mind jesus
sharing our apartment.
i'm pretty easygoing,
i'd like to think.
i invite him in, compliment his beard,
offer food that won't dirty up his robes.

but when you come home from church
and i try to touch you,
you always pull away.
your eyes turn scared and you say
"this is wrong, we are wrong,
we're so wrong!"
and it takes longer and longer
to quiet you nowadays,
to run my hands through your hair and whisper
"feel this? how's this wrong?
i love you more than sunsets
or the ocean or birds."

and each time your mother calls you,
you drop my nickname, start referring to me
as "elizabeth"
pay a little more attention to the guys
on television,
show no interest in
all our favorite shows.

and god crawls into our bed
with us, between the sheets
makes it silent
makes it cold.
i touch your arm gently,
but you're lost in dreams
of hell.

i wish you could remember
kissing in the heat of summer
popsicles dripping around our feet
your cheeks red, lips red, laughing.
i wish you could remember
watching RENT together
then pulling me into the bedroom--
"there's only us. there's only this."

i believe in you
and you believe in a religion
that tells us our relationship
will kill us, in the end.

well, i would go to hell for you.
i would burn and suffer
and what-the-fuck-ever
if you would look at me again,
if you would hold my hand in public,
if you'd remember we have friends out there.
we're in love.

i sit on the mattress and wait for you
as you kneel inside our room
at night.

"please take care of mom and daddy.
watch over brooklyn. guide my feet.
and, god, oh, please
forgive me.
i'm a sinner--
i have sinned."

you crawl into the bed;
i put my arms around your body.
at least until the morning
i can have
some part of you.

"tomorrow's sunday," you remind me
when i lean in and try to kiss you.
"fuck goddamn sundays," i reply.
you shake your head
and turn away.