All that is left.
SinEvery Sunday, I sit in the same pew with my family. In the summer, the church is abominably hot, and my cotton dress sticks to my skin. In the winter, the wind tears through the bell tower, right through my many layers of wool. Whatever the season, my burning shame in that church never changes, never ceases.
I am fourteen and I am in love with my preacher.
Father Reed is a fine, imposing man, with his black robes and dark flashing eyes and thunderous Commandments of God. "Christ died for our sins," is the popular refrain these days. Not my sins, I am sure. I have not yet confessed them, so how could He know? Christ was too pure, too good and humble to do as I have done. To touch himself under the blankets after his sisters have fallen asleep. He knew nothing of the want in the tips of his fingers, the heat lingering in the pulse at his throat. He has never wanted what I wanted. I have never confessed, but I can truly be silent no longer. I must do something, or else I am sure I will go
Current Residence: Marietta, GA
Favourite genre of music: American Musical Theater
Favourite cartoon character: The Tick
Personal Quote: Every man is a damn fool 5 minutes each day. Wisdom consists of not exceeding that limit.