The Confessions
His gaze reminded me of my fear, of my humiliation and indignation. His look alone held this body once posed for the purpose of perpetual lamentation or else some position of sexual intonation. He reminded me of when I used to lay down at confessors feet, the perditious fires that had burned my bedding sheets, the shameful blaze of my own heartbeat.
He reminded me of how I used to die inside, searching endlessly for his hand to guide, but somehow always slipping of coarse, with his guide down my pants and his hand always ready to enforce, a woman’s experience of intercourse. And what exactly was it that I had been expecting to find in my mirror’s reflection, through endless hours of self-inspection, perhaps the fearfully anticipated moment of God’s rejection. So I suppose this is why we pour our thoughts in confessional reach, and douse the vibrance of our hearts with lifeless speech, because we are searching for Home but always feel that we are the one exception on Love’s embrace, isn’t this why we always take out our umbrellas whenever it rains Grace.
His stare reminded me of how I learned never to trust the silence between my breathing, and how words came to displace the tears of my body’s grieving. But the truth is a sinner’s secrets should never be sold to the highest bidder, its taste will always be bitter, if our mouths are full of words that need a baby sitter. Or worse yet if our hearts fight the immediacy needed to experience our own life’s riddle, and we give our power away to a man who can stand in the middle. Yes I knew as a woman I was afraid to touch God with bare hands, forgive me Mother for I have sinned.

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