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"