I’m slow.

But even I know

this isn’t going to work.

Just try telling that

to my heart.

My head keeps spinning.

I need some space to think.

Later that day, I say to Trey,

“Look. I can see

you want to cool it for a while,

so let’s.”

Trey is all shrugs.

I wonder what that means,

but not for long.

“Yeah, well,” says Trey.

“Whatever.”

I suddenly shiver

in the winter

of his words.

The bathroom

seems light-years away.

I barely make it

before the flood of tears

puts my shame on display.

It’s official.

I live in regret.

That’s the black room

at the end of the hall.

Call before you come.

I may not be

in the mood for company.

These days, I wake

and look at The Book,

a familiar stranger

collecting dust

on my bedside table.

I haven’t felt the weight of it

in my hands for weeks.

How can I even

call it mine anymore?

I know the score.

It’s fragile pages

make it clear:

sex outside of marriage is sin.

Spin it any way you like,

I blew it.

One voice tells me

to search the Psalms

for forgiveness.

Another says

Don’t go crying to God now.

And so I pull away and stew

in a new kind of loneliness.

I slip into my mother’s room,

raid the small shelf by her bed

hunting for a book a little less holy,