Bless me Father for I love my sins.

For how can I be blamed when I knew, the moment my back pressed the soft bed, that warm body thawing the distance between us, that drought will soon be over. Let it be the mother of all my sins, and I confess that it remains in my words and lingers all the more in my thoughts; that I love what I have done--what we did--and with tomorrow coming, I try not to fail doing it again.






And so I thank Mother that I no longer am a virgin; I abhor not a hint of regret for the body--that body--was like that of an angel. And a saint. Nevermind if he was a cousin. Or a cousin's cousin. I am happy, though, that he was not a brother.


So bless me Father for I love my sins.