Collar tight, I open the door of the confessional and take the seat
Old wood with ears and breath, the floor creaking with leftover guilt
I allow the walls to close in all around and above me
Quietly listening for the presence of another in the place
I usually occupy on the other side of this porous wall
There’s no one on the other side of the grate. No peer.
No absolution from the voyeur.
No escape for the one damned to listen.
Sweat rises on my palms when a thousand confessions, none of them mine, visit me
Whispering that all is forgiven, all is forgiven. In His Name.
And then, as in ritual, my own voice rises inside me
rejecting, as it always has, the words I’ve spoken a thousand times.
I prepare to speak. “Bless me father, for I have sinned…”
Your wish is unholy … “My head swims with visions of profane love.”
Your craving soils and lowers you … “But it’s all I ever think about.”
“I firmly resolve, with the help of your grace, to sin no more…”
A voice reaches through the heavy air
Just as I stand to exit the iron-barred, sensually appointed box
of my mind
Almost a whisper – May the lord be in our heart …
“…that I may make a good confession.” I finish,
before stepping out and drawing the door closed behind me.
After all, Its also said
Do not give what is holy to the dogs
Nor cast your pearls before swine.
And taking the advice of Thomas,
Bringing forth what is within me,
I step forward
Leaving my guilt laying on the floor behind me, as so many others have done
Anyway, workplace politics and confessions don’t mix.