The same week you kissed the boy I sorta liked
you said you wanted to stop going to church.
“God isn’t doing much for us these days.”
So we never went back.

Our Sundays stacked into a tension until
you threw a pair of kitchen scissors at my feet
then smashed in the glass front of a cupboard.
We both stood there shaking.

“I can’t use them anymore.”
God didn’t do much for us then.