Rubbing my sweaty palms across my jeans,
I get up from my seat to proceed to the confession box,
The confession box is where I am to confess my sins in the presence of a priest,
I feel people's eyes burning through my back,
As I weave through the pews,
The choir seems to stop singing their hymn of sorrow,
The baby of the young couple that screams every mass,
Is really silent right now,
My heels loudly clack on the pristine floors,
My heart beats uncontrollably fast,
Why does the confession box look so far away?
I cannot turn back now,
With the bile rising in my throat and my brow slick with sweat,
I arrive in the box,
Knees dropping on the cushion,
Fingers to my forehead to make the sign of the cross,
I notice that the priest's voice sounds familiar,
Doing the most unorthodox of things,
I peep through the wire mesh,
Why it is myself seated on the other side!
Tear logged I get up and walk out,
The people's eyes no longer burn through my back,
For I have set myself free, in that confession box.