dark Friday,
I always loved a little more than Sunday,
always understood the nails a little more
than the hands that wore the holes,
but I guess, maybe, I was born in guilt
and determined to shame not just me
but you, too
with a holy stigmata to wear around
like some truth to shout
a love so harsh we’ve worn it out,
but we always stop short before we call it hate
even if it is what it is,
old, dark Friday –
though we pray to be blinded by the light
some day.

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