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missionaries


i was eleven the last time i kneeled on a pew. the last time i closed my eyes, clasped my hands, and bowed my head. in the same position i assumed facing a corner. eyes, closed, head down, clasped hands behind me. forgive me father, for i have sinned, forgive me father, for i have wronged. forgive me, father for i have fucked up. 

i outgrew the frankincense and myrrh, the body and blood, the bread and wine. 

i outgrew the age where it is appropriate to force a person to face where one wall meets the other for having done something wrong.

i am eighteen staring up at you, missionaries in the bedroom. 

legs extended, head raised, forgive me father, for i have sinned.


he told me
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