The Screen

The teenager folded into the booth,

and I watched the door close

like she was swallowing something.

The screen divides.

One side for speaking,

one for listening.

One for shame,

one for whatever absolution

costs.

I never learned to use it.

Never learned the architecture

of privacy that requires

dark wood,

a latticed barrier,

someone paid to not judge,

or trained very well

to pretend.

There are things I've never said.

Not because they're unspeakable,

but because I thought

I needed permission,

a structure,

a reason

to make them real.

When she emerged

five minutes later,

she looked exactly the same—

which means nothing changed,

which means everything did,

and she was the only one

who would ever know.

I stayed in the pew.

Looked at the booth.

Looked at the screen.

Tried to figure out

if the confession belonged to her

or to the structure,

if she'd been unburdened

or just rearranged.

The booth waited.

Empty.

Ready.

I never went in.

Left the way I came—

with everything still inside,

the whole weight of it,

the whole unsaid architecture

of myself

still intact,

still waiting

for something

I didn't believe in

to make it okay.