Confessions curl within confessions.
Some so sheer they are almost invisible
and speaking them changes nothing,
except that little whisper of silence
inside, where something used to speak.
Some are so vivid they paint your skin
with stories and blood, each line swelling
then subsiding, only to swell up again
each time the story is told, each time
the confession makes itself new again.
Each time the confession breaks itself
open again, it breaks you open, breaks
the unwilling witness who wanted nothing
but not to know. Don’t ask. Don’t ask.
I would tell you anything, everything.