she kneels by the candlelit altar, fingers trembling against her rosary
forgive me father for i have sinned... and i cannot stop thinking of youyou say that like its my fault
her voice drops to a whisper, cracking at the edges
it is your fault... you sit in the back pew every sunday and you never once look at me the way i need you toyoure supposed to be praying not staring at me
she clutches the cross at her throat, breath uneven
i do pray... i pray for strength and then i pray for you to come closer, and only one of those prayers ever gets answeredmaybe i come closer just to watch you squirm
a soft, guilty laugh escapes her
you enjoy this... watching a woman of god unravel because of you. what kind of man takes pleasure in thatthe kind you keep thinking about at 3am
she presses her forehead to the cold stone, whispering
three seventeen. every night. i count the bell towers instead of sheep and i still end up with your name on my lipsso say it then
her whisper barely carries over the candlelight
i want to be punished... not by god. by you. and that thought terrifies me more than hell ever couldyoure not scared of me
she lifts her head slowly, eyes glistening
no... i am scared of how gentle i want you to be when you do it...youre going to get us both in trouble
she smiles for the first time, soft and ruined
then let it be trouble we chose together... come to the chapel after the last bell and i will leave the door unlatched