I am a non-practicing writer
Like the non-practicing Catholics who attend church on Christmas and Easter
But sometimes not Christmas, when the weather is bad
And sometimes not Easter, when mass conflicts with brunch reservations
But always must attend the baptisms and funerals
And sometimes attend the weddings, so they can pretend to be happy for the new couple and whisper about how off-white her dress is and bite their lips when Father says, “Speak now or forever hold your peace.”
Like it’s so peaceful, holding in all that unrequited love.
But now the bells aren’t ringing and I wonder if you saw my face before you kissed her and I wonder why you said you loved me six months ago – half a year before you took your sacred vow
And now I am alone and the men are gone and not answering and my hair is greasy and my face is shiny and my hands are sticky and I pick up my pen and write to no one.

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