The Sunday people took me to the countryside.
With all my peers that I never knew,
A white mass of early teenagers still figuring themselves out.
The Sunday people told us, that god had a plan for us.
They said to forget about figuring yourself out.
They said Jesus is the answer to everything.
Instead they planted a lump of
weeds in their skulls.
Scratched their way in with blood
Crusted nails,
They got in their head
With nothing to stop them.
Weeds choke out the soil where
the bittersweet flower
Should grow.
Where thoughts should race,
Weeds and Jesus laid.

The Sunday people sat us down.
Told us that we were all sinners.
The Sunday people said I wasn’t real.
I was a make believe idea that the millennials made.
They said I would rot in hell for loving who I wanted.  
Who thought loving could be a sin?
Said there were only two genders and anyone who thinks otherwise is a joke.
The kids just stared Into the Sunday people’s eyes and absorbed their weeds into the dirt in their skulls.

The Sunday people said men can do what they want with my body.
Said they have the right.

I asked the Sunday people why.
They said that’s just the way it is.

The Sunday people were the only good people, the Sunday people told us.

The Sunday people told me I didn’t exist, I was an abomination,
I would go to hell.

So even now, the Sunday people have their nails on my scalp,
trying to scratch their way into my skull to plant their weeds.

Sometimes, they get through and for a little bit,
I don’t feel like I exist.  
Sometimes, because of the Sunday people,
I wish I didn’t.
Not a lot anymore,
But they still have their marks on my wrist.
They still have the marks on my knuckles and hands from where I punched concrete and scratched my skin till I bled.

To the Sunday people,
I hope you know what you’ve done.