old habits die hard, but the ones that die the hardest have human faces. these are boys wrapped around fingers, these are girls painting their lips, and here I am, writing love songs for all of them. here stands Saint Peter and a book, and his long fingers trailing over the words: the first chapter was drafted on the back of a movie ticket, the second on a cocktail napkin, I think-- the third I wrote with pen on somebodyβs skin. the fourth, scratched on wooden planks with a knife my father gave me. and yet-- and yet, here they all are, together like a leather-bound Bible and the gatekeeper smiles and says nothing. angel, what do I atone for? yes, these are my hands tearing out the pages, throwing them into the flames, despairing please, God, why wonβt they burn--? now in the fire I see movie screens and bare skin, lips on drink glasses in dark rooms. here are the things which I have lived and spoken; the ink wonβt come off the paper and I will never ask for forgiveness. this is the ending I wrote when God didn't answer. here I ask again, and only once-- angel, what do I atone for? and the gatekeeper smiles and says nothing.
originally written for a class assignment based on the T.S. Eliot poem "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock." my original title was "Love Song of the Unrepentant," but I changed it after editing.