Confiteor

It was supposed to be where the lost found the light of God. A safe haven, a place of prayer. But I knew what the 24 well-maintained acres of St. Mary's Assimilation School for Wayward Souls really were: a prison meant to drown us in the word of God. But not her. She was a stolen breath, a succulent bite of Eve's apple, a temptation I'd follow down to where the darkest sins burrowed deep. Our mutual descent feels less of a plunge and more of a slow, tantalizing drip, pooling like honey on blasphemous tongues. May God forgive me—I plan to savor each sinful drop.