by Aimee Nicole

Sins snake across this skin,

shedding each Sunday

with the promise to renew.

Penance because I live in

this purgatory and yes my

memory might wipe itself clean

of grocery lists and work-to-dos

and appointment times but

never could I ever forget

the wicked slips of tongue or

enchantress lures or

covetous licks.

Just lay there and absorb

each confession like you are the ocean

and I’m here to pollute you

with the trash that I am—

once innocent by ignorance,

then by denial, now by greed.

Editor's note: An earlier version of this poem incorrectly listed the title as "Intentions." The title was corrected on 9/1/22.


Featured in our September 2022 issue, "Loyalty"