Confiteor by Salem Sinclair & Halle


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.

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