What I've Carried

I walked past the church and saw it through the glass.

The confessional booth.

Wood the color of old hands.

That small, dark space where people go to tell the truth.

I haven't been inside in fifteen years.

I haven't told anyone about the thing I've carried since then.

It's small. That's what makes it worse.

Not big enough to matter,

but heavy enough to wear grooves into your chest.

I stood there looking at that wooden box

like it might suddenly open

and let me walk in

and say the words

and have them dissolve into the air like they never happened.

Like I never happened.

But the door stays locked when you're not ready.

And I'm not ready.

So I'll keep carrying it.

The way I've kept carrying it.

And sometimes I'll walk past this church

and look at that booth

and wonder what it would feel like

to finally put something down.