Twice I confessed my soul to a ***** priest with bible hands
The first time I was lost, not even for words, just for coherence and faith
The last time I was a babbling fountain, spilling all my secrets and before I realised
It was too late. Silence.
Where was the priest? I still saw the white
I still heard the tap tapping of of his judgement on the bench
I smelled the incense like my grandmother’s room after Friday prayer

I woke up and I knew that the church was my sins
With walls of plastered apologies to God
Windows of hope and breaths of fresh air just in case I decided to change
And of course that alter was my heart
There’s no place for a broken soul in my church

And it pained me to note that although intention was all I thought that mattered It was much more, much more than what I confessed
Much more than my mind was prepared to give
And my church of sins and apologies crumbled that Sunday morning and I was left with rubble of nothing I could piece together