Father, you told me to mortify the flesh. But Emily Pink taught me to paint it. She wears cherry chapstick to confession and whispers venial nothings through the screen. When she kneels, she doesn't bow her head—she looks up . Straight at the crucifix. And she smiles, because she knows something the carved wood doesn't.
As long as young women struggle with religious trauma and the pressure to be perfect, they will need a secret handshake. is that handshake. forgivemefather emily pink
I found her lipstick in the vestibule. "Forgivemefather" scrawled on the back of a collection envelope in bubble letters. Inside, a single petal from the Easter lilies, already bruising at the edges. Father, you told me to mortify the flesh
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