placeholder: "about" paragraph


confessions of a catholic school girl

All I could ever think about, sitting on those hard wooden pews, Christ looking down at me from every single stained glass window, was fucking.


Fucking girls, and maybe boys, though never after matrimony and always in hiding.

Her hand moving up my skirt, her lips on my neck, her legs over my shoulders.

My Virgin Mary necklace dangling over her face as I climb on top of her.

I sat and prayed and stood and sang and nobody knew what was going on in my head.

It was fucking liberating.


The things I was taught to repress came to me every time I entered that place, so full of darkness and light at the same time.

Repress became obsess, and I knew I was going to hell, according to the people surrounding me, all humming to the lord for His forgiveness.


We pray to be cleansed, forgiven, protected, absolved.

The sins we’ve committed and keep committing

Piling up like dust in the chapel.

All we can offer Him back is an empty promise to never sin again.

But I don’t pray.


The body of Christ is held up to us all, and the priest gets the first bite. One by one, we all put

His flesh to our lips and swallow the man we call God.

But it tastes like cardboard on my tongue.

The only flesh I want in my mouth is on her chest, in between her thighs.

Yes, men give us sustenance.

But women create men.


Women taste sweet and soft and melt like butter in my mouth.

Women wrap around me like sugar vines and leave their hot breath on my neck.

Women hold me close and stroke my hair with the same hands that shove up my pleated skirt.


I wait in line for my turn to confess the sins that keep me satisfied, on my toes, between her legs, and beg for the forgiveness I don’t need.

The priest looks at me with unwavering eyes, the taste of Christ still lingering in his mouth.

My chest shakes as he asks me to tell him all my deepest sins and sorrows.


And so I lie, like I always do.

I don’t tell him about the fucking and her mouth on mine and that she tastes a million times better than that bread they shove down our throats.

His eyes press shut and he sends me away, to pray and pray and beg to be saved.

But I don’t pray.