act of contrition

this is not a confession, i have no secrets

to reveal other than the shrapnel i extract

with tweezers from the mausoleum that

rooted in my gut.

this is not a confession, no, it’s a plea to

hear me over the rattle of my inhalation. i

am begging you to lower your hand, lower

your voice, lower your disdain.

this is not a confession & you are not my

god. i am not seeking your absolution, the

christening & all the deliverance. climb off

the cross & wash your own feet.

this is not a confession, i am not of your

flock. you cannot herd me back in line. i

will drink the well water through the

paper straw & let your prayers hover over

my sleeping frame.

this is not a confession. this is admission

that i never had the divinity needed to

absolve you of the destruction you wield.

buy a .45, there is more nobility in your

hands.

this is not a confession & i am not sorry

for my sins, oh god. oh god, my mistakes

are not weapons & i do not need to be

forgiven for the acts of stick figures glued

to the page.

this is not a confession.