So you fall in love with the church girl (the one who isn’t gay)

She’s Splenda-sweet salvation, preened by her parents, who do everything in a -ly way: welcome you hesitant-ly, talk about you loud-ly, watch you knowing-ly before you know why. Your church girl is daisy socks, French braids, smiley-face pancakes. She’s citrus shampoo and vanilla lip balm, your first kiss, only for practice. Every friendship bracelet, a rosary. Every handhold, a new sin. Your heart is an offering she doesn’t want, so God blesses her with a boyfriend. You weep holy water tears, a pure that burns, and baptize yourself in hellfire until every part of you she ever touched is reborn.