It’s hard to explain my relationship with religion. It’s a past that I inexplicably fail to escape and a truth that follows wherever I go. The thing with religious trauma is that you don’t just leave the church; there is always a little steeple living in your chest, each corner of the Lord’s House digging into the softness of your flesh. Forever, a little church lives within your body, and it either sings or it howls condemnations. For over a decade, the parish of my body seethed in rage,...