Guilt

I hate the way her eyes catch light, 

like polished wood pews in the church I was raised in— 

all browns and ambers, flecked with fire. 

I hate the way she smiles, how it crawls beneath my skin, 

turns my stomach like guilt. 

She’s everything I’ve been warned about. 

And I hate her hands. 

Delicate as rosary beads, 

but they could pull me apart like scripture, 

turn me into something I don’t recognize, 

make me forget every verse that ever told me to fear her. 

I hate that I think about her when I pray. 

Every Hail Mary tastes like her name on my tongue, 

every "Amen" sounds like a lie I’m telling myself. 

The Bible says thou shalt not covet, 

and yet I find myself at her feet, 

like a sinner begging for forgiveness, 

wondering what heaven would feel like if she kissed me. 

And the worst part is, 

I hate how much I don’t want to hate her at all. 

She walks past me like salvation, 

her laugh like a hymn I could sing for eternity, 

and I’m afraid— 

afraid that loving her means losing Him, 

afraid of the fire that could come, 

of the hell they told me was waiting for girls like me 

who look at girls like her 

the way I do. 

But if heaven is a place I can’t see her smile, 

can’t hear her laugh, 

can’t feel the weight of her gaze on me 

like a cross I’m more than willing to carry, 

then maybe it’s not a place I belong. 

Because the truth is, 

I don’t hate her at all. 

I love her like a secret, 

like a sin I’m too scared to confess. 

I love her like the first bite of forbidden fruit— 

sweet, dangerous, and worth the fall. 

Amberosia Persinger