the camera in the confessional booth

I pray

Not often I’d say but
I’d told you that I do and
You smiled like it was
The strangest secret you’ve ever been told
More than the stories behind the tattoos under my clothes
You asked me what I prayed about today
And I never did tell you.
I don’t believe in giving all my cards away
When my deck is stacked just right
I know who holds the ace
I knew when I crawled in the small space
Of a confessional booth
And you followed me in
Proclaiming you would listen from here for this take
I knew
I was the queen of this game
Door shuts
It sounds like the click of your lighter at midnight
the sliver of light
It seems abnormally bright
“Script ready”
Did my voice just shake?
I’m pretending I don’t see the smirk on your face
The call echoed in my ears
In the wall behind us while we listened
Listened too hard to
Really be listening at all.
The light from my phones flashlight
Tracing over the words being whispered on the other side of this booth
I made my first mistake
I looked away from the words
And I saw you
Glint of eyes
Line of jaw
I saw you like I’d never seen you before
Like I hadn’t seen you every day for three weeks
I pray
I give up the ghost–
I couldn’t pretend that I wasn’t paying attention to you
to the electricity coursing through this booth
I confess
You made me a mess of nerve endings and short breaths
And my hands hurt
Nails dig in palms staring at your lips
Your hands
I pray hard
I pray you touch me
I pray you make good on that look your giving me
I pray for the bite behind those lips
I pray for your grip on my calf–it’s a weird thing
The barest touch can do everything to me
I pray
You’re shifting my perceptions
With the inflection behind your eyes
In the heavy heat of this small room
I haven’t turned the page of my script
because I can’t stop looking at your lips
Please don’t make me beg with my eyes
I can never do it right
I can’t speak
They’ll hear
What’s code for “Please just an inch over. Come a little closer.”
I’m going insane
Can’t you see?
This room is smaller than an elevator
I’m not claustrophobic but I can’t even breathe
Can’t you feel?
I’m burning the air
I’m praying for our sin so often alluded to to be freely given
In a church no less
How much more religious could I get
About how badly I crave the curve of your neck?
I’m prepared to burn to death
Well, fuck.

Time’s up.


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