Sundays are awful.
Sundays mean Church, and Church means "ridding me of my sins." Church means holy water, the Bible, and even more people telling me how sinful I am.
Three hours of this, from nine in the morning to twelve. And as soon as I get home, they beat me.
I get sent to my room after. For the rest of the day.
So they don't have to see me, the mistake.
You know what though? It's solitary confinement, that's what it really is.
I hate it.
Why can't my family just realize that I can't change who I am? That I can't decide who I love?
Why can't anyone understand?
Death, I got one step closer to meeting you today; I was tempted. I was strongly urged to carve upward on my arm. The small silver instrument, stained with my blood, could've been the finalization of this.
But in the end, I was a coward.
Just wait a little longer, okay?
