It is the Sunday service. I am dressed in my brightest colours, the bows in my hair pull tightly at my scalp and I itch at it, my knees bruise from the pews and I clasp my hands together so tight in prayer they ache.
This is where I feel most like a lady, pretty and uncomfortable and knelt with a mans name stuffed into my mouth.
It is through stained glass windows I am reminded that I am nothing if I am not faithful, a whore when he kisses me, even in my fine church clothes.
But I am blessed, they pray for me, for my pussy untouched as if the men who leer do not hold their wives hands as they sing their hymns.
I do not hate my faith, in fact, I do not have any. How could I, the model of immodesty, bow my head to a name I use in vain.