I want to wash away my sins
like the nuns in their habits,
covered up and wed to God.
Instead they cling to me,
squeezing tight as a swimming cap
and cannot be removed.
Could I pick the sins off one by one
like fleas on my cat
that I search for but never find.
Or I could pretend
they've disappeared, and crawl
into a pearly nautilus of bliss.
A priest once told me
that sinners go to a fiery hell.
In my version of this eternity,
I'm a girl scout roasting
marshmallows
as I snub my nose at God,
my phantom and saviour.
I'm his dark bride
who lights his candleabra
until I am merely a skeleton
that drips wax onto the saints
as the clock ticks for infinity.
