I rehearsed it there where light

I rehearsed it there, where light

dimmed behind the cracked wood,

an empty booth no priest would enter.

Words weighed like coins sinking,

a confession withheld.

In the mirror, my throat scraped

against the invisible bars —

a silent plea that never got

past the door’s worn edge.

Some sins don’t need forgiveness,

or maybe I’m just too tired

to ask,

so I leave the door ajar,

and the silence thickens behind it.