i sit in the confessional, the lattice throwing shadows that in the corners of my eyes become demons.

inhale, hold, exhale.

Forgive me not, for it was not me who sinned. But God himself, who allowed the hands between my legs when my thighs were no more than centimeters apart, those who forced themselves to invade my space even as I cried and prayed for mercy. God who allowed their sweat to fall on my face, mixing with my tears. God who caught my breath in my throat until it was scratched raw inside my mouth as a bird in a cage.

It was God who sinned when this happened not once or twice, but so much that my body became a shell and my mind a mallet with which to break. It was God who stood by as I opened my veins and looked for an answer.

Forgive me not father, because you did not protect me, forgive me not, because it was you who did nothing.

Inhale, hold, exhale.

The lattice throws shadows across my lap and my legs have stopped trembling.

Forgive me not father, because you have pillaged me through them.