You’re usually not that blunt.
It’s usually sewn in with threads of:
motherhood, divine goal, dating advice, dances,
I usually just
All of it comes together in The Plan,
scraps of fabric hand-sewn together into a white
Ready for the man I’m bound to meet.
But it doesn’t fit.
It’s bodice squeezes at my chest,
fabric billows at my stomach,
the neckline tightened like a noose.
and I don’t know my future without my
and I don’t know what I am without my
But I am going to burn your
Streak around a bonfire filled with white lace and satin.
I won’t hang myself by your expectations—
because there are No Homosexual Members of the Church.
And though you'd rather
sew my lips closed, my mouth smiling, and my tear ducts shut
then let me embroider Queer on a pillowcase.
I take a seam ripper to your stitches
cross stitched scriptures ripped out
stitch by stitch,
and replace them with my own.
Until my hands tremble from tying knots
and my back aches from bowing
and my fingers bleed from pin point needles.
Then I switch to my sewing machine;
which roars with all the things
you told me not to say,
Creating sloppy cursive in old church t-shirts,
with their too high necklines,
sewing over the bullshit platitudes
you adorne me with.
Needle stabbing up and down into cotton
my foot slammed on the pedal
while you call me bitter and lost
in polite condescension.
I lift my bare foot to silence.
I look around the room.
Scissors and needles and unraveling thread,
unraveling every part of me you made.
And a capital QUEER sewn into everything I own
loud and impossible to ignore.
To loud for you to muffle with Christ-like cotton.
And there are No Homosexual Members of the Church,
because we left for the world or left for our graves.
And I leave your world of fabric-filled silence.