Silent Confessions

I sit in the booth’s stale air,

incense and plastic flowers locked in battle.

The candlelight flickers, tired,

and paints tired hands on cracked wood.

The seat still warm from a stranger’s sins,

words swallowed fast like breath held underwater.

No murmurs, no absolution,

just the weight of silence pressing thick,

a quiet so loud it shatters the empty.

I lean in, half-ready to speak,

but the only confession is the one I keep

folded under my tongue,

never quite making it past the door.