Graffiti as Confession

Someone wrote in blue pen, all caps,

on the stall door: YOU ARE ALLOWED TO LEAVE.

The letters were smudged,

like the person who wrote it

was shaking,

or crying,

or trying to press hard enough

for the words to go through the door,

through the wall,

into the chest of whoever would read them.

I read them.

I stood there in the restaurant bathroom,

hands still wet from washing,

and I read them three times.

YOU ARE ALLOWED TO LEAVE.

Not advice. Not a suggestion.

Permission. Explicit. In all caps.

Like someone needed to write it

because they needed to read it.

Like someone was standing exactly where I'm standing,

looking exactly at this door,

and thought: I need to tell them.

I need to tell the next person.

I need to write this down

so it doesn't disappear.

I didn't erase it.

I stood there and looked at it,

and I thought about who wrote it,

and why,

and whether they ever came back

to see if their words were still there,

still trying to reach someone.