I Am Not Sorry

I’m sorry. I don’t care about Stained glass or Holy whereabouts. No, Momma, I can’t keep living— As if I believe The words are spoken, only to deceive. I bare no tie to wafers and wine. No joy is had from the Label of “Bad.” And emerald green tapestries are beautiful, Of course, But they cannot amend my remorse. The sanctuary where I once rested Now feels to be painfully infested With slithering lies for who I am. I’m sorry Momma, I truly am.