The Pope

by L.P. Lovell

“Delilah.” His gaze locks with mine, so full of promises, so intense I feel like I could drown in it. “Do you need something to believe in, Delilah?” “I think I do,” I whisper.

She’s a pretty girl, but she’s stunning when she cries.

We’re darkness and light, hard against soft, the tainted against perfection. We’re a storm, and I want to throw my head back and bask in the deep rumble of thunder, the ironic thrill of being powerless and turning yourself over to something greater.