All in all, I prefer the guilt of hidden transgressions to that atrocious, flaccid moment after confession. Kneeling between the statues of Saint Cecilia and Saint Lawrence, I hate having admitted to the priest that I have committed the sin of pride, that I have stolen plums and sung dirty songs. That nervous tongue wetting thick lips, that fetid curiosity—I just hate myself. Little girls must be transparent to be happy. That’s too bad. Me, I feel I’m better off in hiding.
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